


Wild

by Castielslostwings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accountant Castiel (Supernatural), Airplane Crashes, Alaska, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Anxiety, Bathing/Washing, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Brave Castiel (Supernatural), Camping, Canon-typical description of injuries, Caring Dean Winchester, Demisexual Castiel (Supernatural), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, Fear of Flying, Fluff and Angst, Gay Sex, Hiking, Huddling For Warmth, Hurt Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, Intimacy, Language, Lone Survivors, Love at First Sight, M/M, Plane Crash, Purgatory vibes, Rescue Missions, Sharing a Bed, Smart Dean Winchester, Survivalist Dean Winchester, Tent Sex, Wilderness, Wilderness Survival, near-drowning, switch Dean/Cas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-09-22 17:21:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 67,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17063903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castielslostwings/pseuds/Castielslostwings
Summary: Castiel and Dean meet for the first time on a plane ride out of Nowhere, Alaska. Castiel’s headed home after an impulsive solo vacation and Dean, a hardened Alaskan native, is just trying to get out of the impossibly small town he grew up in that’s got nothing left to offer him. They forge an instant connection over Dean’s flying anxiety and whiskey, a meet-cute that has all the makings of a rom-com with a sickeningly sweet happy ending. That is, until their plane explodes in mid-air, crashing headlong into the Alaskan wilderness and killing everyone on board save for Dean and Castiel. When no rescue shows up to save them, the two men are forced to make some tough decisions. To make it home alive they’ll have to trust each other and find faith neither of them has ever really wanted. Will they survive or succumb to the unforgiving mountain wilderness? And will their journey tear them apart... or bring them closer together?





	1. Takeoff

**Author's Note:**

> ~~Regular updates planned 1-2x/week until finished. :)~~  
>  Complete! And with embedded art by Jackie Dee aka Winchester_Reload!! 
> 
>  
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>   
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> 

Fire. That’s the first thing that registers, once anything registers at all. There’s fire all around him, flames climbing the proverbial walls and begging to eat him alive. With fire comes heat, and this is no exception. He thinks he might let out a groan, but the noises around him swallow it before it can be heard, even by his own ears. He wonders if the scratch in his throat and the sounds whirring and rushing like an ocean in his head mean he’s cried out, but it’s all blurry- it’s all colors and searing, furious heat, hungry flames licking up the side of his arm, licking at the skin under his thin jacket, so hot it’s almost cold. And somehow, the other side of him _is_ cold- a freezing, burning cold that’s sharp and piercing and unforgiving. It's overwhelming, both sensations trying to exist at once, warring to consume him, and the rest fading to blackness. Colors swim and disappear, exchanged for an impossibly dark, endless black. It feels bigger than just darkness, it’s a void that’s expanding, unhinging its jaw in its effort to swallow, to consume, to take Castiel whole and dissolve his very being into the nothingness from whence it came. The pain in his body becomes secondary to the fear, and then shortly after to the certainty, the absolute knowledge- that this is the end.  
  
As he slips away, it’s not like how they show in the movies. There’s no clip show, no highlight reel featuring all of his defining life moments, no montage of “could have beens” and missed opportunities.   
  
There’s just… green.  
  
And then nothing.

***

_Eight hours earlier..._

The hotel phone rang, shrill and disquieting in the pre-dawn stillness of the plush room. Castiel groans as he rolls over, refusing to open his eyes and instead feeling around blindly for the receiver. He slaps it off of the cradle and fumbles it to his ear with a bleary, “Hello?”

“Yes, Mr. Novak, this is the front desk with your requested wake up call.”

“Mmph,” Castiel replies.

“I have here that you requested a room service delivery this morning, that will be on its way up to you shortly. As a reminder, the shuttle to the train depot leaves at six-thirty from outside the front lobby, we’ll look forward to seeing you then. If you require assistance with your baggage, we’ll be happy to provide that as well.”

Castiel rubs a hand over his face, trying to grab hold of and organize the thoughts in his still half-asleep brain. “Yes, of course,” he stalls. “Umm… I’ll just need the items I placed in storage brought to the shuttle,” he says.

“Very good, sir, please let us know if there’s anything else we can assist you with.”

“Uhm… alright. I mean, thank you, thanks very much,” Castiel groans again as he places the receiver back in its cradle. Despite the copious amounts of rest and relaxation he’s gotten on this trip, he’s _still_ the opposite of a morning person, and not for the first time he kicks himself for booking such an early flight home. He rolls onto his back, starfishing his arms and legs out on the crisp, cool sheets, savoring the luxury mattress. _Definitely the right choice,_ he thinks to himself, reflecting on the past week as his body slowly wakes up.

When he thinks his eyes can handle it, Castiel grabs his smartphone off of the nightstand and powers it back on. There’s a week’s worth of messages from his mother, a handful from his boss, and a litany of texts from his friend Balthazar. Castiel ignores them all, except for the ones from his boss, and only listens to those because he’s relatively sure of their content.  As he suspected, his boss was surprised at his impulsive request for time off but still accommodating. _She’d better be,_ Castiel thought to himself. He hadn’t taken a day off in over ten years prior to this trip - it wasn’t like he didn’t deserve it. He shoots off a quick email to her, confirming his return-to-work date for tomorrow, and powers his phone off again, not ready to deal with anyone else.

And why should he? He’s an adult, a thirty-two-year-old one at that, and he’s entitled to take whatever time for himself that he sees fit, regardless of what anyone else thinks. As he makes his way through the room and into the shower, he does have to concede that the _why_ of it all may not be what his family and Balthazar are worried about, but more so the _how,_ at least, the _how_ Castiel had left them thinking he was attempting. It was true that when he’d abandoned his original plan to disappear for a week into the Alaskan wilderness with nothing but some camping gear and a few books in favor of holing up at a luxury resort he hadn’t bothered to update anyone with his plans, but it really was none of their business. 

 _They’ll find out soon enough_ , he thinks, soaping his hair and enjoying the feel of the hot water pounding on his back. _Or maybe they won’t,_ he mused, weighing his options. Perhaps he’ll go home and let them all think he’s a seasoned wilderness explorer now. That would probably shut his mother up a lot better than the truth, which is that he’d spent the majority of the last seven days reading on the deck of a resort that was a lot more “Disney” than it was “wild.” Soaks in the hot tub, luxury meals, long hours reading in comfortable chairs on the deck overlooking Denali National Park. Honestly, the closest he’s come to “the wilderness” was the narrated bus tour and the occasional hikes on cleared and well-marked trails. Even those he’d mostly shunned in favor of running on an indoor treadmill set up in front of floor-to-ceiling windows that provided stunning views of the scenery. Suffice it to say, the truth of this vacation wasn’t going to impress anyone.

Castiel shrugs as he dries off; he doesn’t have to decide what he’s going to tell them all now. He dresses quickly and shoves the last of his belongings into his travel bags, giving the room a once-over to ensure he doesn’t leave anything behind. When he’s satisfied, he shoulders his bags and takes the elevator to the lobby, settling up at the front desk and heading outside to catch his shuttle. When he steps out into the chilly Alaskan air, he can’t help but take a deep breath and savor the atmosphere. Luxury hotel or not, the location is gorgeous, and the atmosphere is somehow both stimulating and restful. Castiel thinks he’ll miss it, and considers making this an annual thing when he gets home.

His unused camping gear is waiting for him in a pile on the cement, some of it still with tags hanging off the zippers. Castiel side-eyes it, and despite his positive experience at the hotel, he can’t help but feel a little let down by his own lack of confidence and bravery. He sighs and pokes through the pile. The tent, the low-temperature sleeping bag and sleep mat, and the sack containing various necessities are all there, mocking him with their pristine condition. He briefly considers leaving it all right where it lays - simply abandoning it, and with it all the proof of his abject failure, but in the end, he’s far too practical to do so. After all, this is hundreds of dollars of camping gear. He can at least sell it secondhand and try to make back some of what he’d stupidly spent. When the shuttle arrives, he directs the porter to load it up alongside his other bags and takes his seat inside. As the bus pulls away, the sun is starting to break through the morning darkness but Denali is firmly hidden behind a low cloud cover. Castiel finds himself disappointed he doesn’t get to see it one last time.

***

The train ride to Fairbanks more than makes up for the weather at Denali. Castiel had known when he’d taken the train out that no matter what else happened during the week, he’d be taking it back. It’s a double-decker train, the top level being completely enclosed in glass and providing a 360-degree view of the scenery. Castiel sits somewhere in the middle, happy to have gotten a window seat, and loses himself in the view. It’s a bit surreal, actually - the train and its tracks are the only thing to break up the pure, unspoiled wilderness for _miles._ Parts of the track are even built directly into the side of the mountains, the drop off on the other side sheer and unforgiving. Castiel can’t help but wonder how the path was excavated and the tracks were laid, there are no roads to speak of, no way to bring machinery and people out here. He tries to google it on his phone but there’s no service when you’re this remote, and the train ride is more than halfway over, so he’s not about to shell out for the WiFi. He settles back against the window and watches the mountains, the rivers, the endless tundra, and the surprising variety of vegetation roll by.

***

Fairbanks International isn’t a giant airport, but it’s reasonably busy for its size and Castiel is suddenly glad he made the extra effort to arrive early. He’s got about three hours until his plane leaves, but he figures he can use the time to catch up on his work emails if he gets bored. He checks his bags- including all of his camping gear- and makes his way through the TSA checkpoint. There’s only one line open at this hour but it’s moving steadily until it suddenly isn’t. Castiel hadn’t been paying much attention to the passengers in front of him but his attention is caught when he hears them start to grumble and complain. He stands on his toes and rocks back and forth to look over the three or four heads preceding him in line, attempting to ascertain the issue. 

It seems to have something to do with the sandy-haired young man currently standing next to the conveyer belt, fumbling his belongings and struggling to take off his heavy boots. As Castiel watches, the other passengers move around him, tossing their bags and shoes onto the belt and striding through the X-ray machine with practiced ease. Their glares and pointed comments seem to upset the man further, and Castiel watches as he drops into a crouch, resting his head against the side of the conveyer belt and breathing for a moment. When he stands again, Castiel’s moved close enough to hear him apologizing to the TSA agent, something about never having traveled before and not knowing the procedure. The TSA agent is a lot kinder than the other passengers, smiling at the man and helping him through the standing X-ray machine.

Castiel finds himself feeling badly for the nervous stranger, and wishing he had been closer to him in line so that he could have helped, could have shielded him from the rude comments. He shakes his head as he unloads his own bags onto the moving belt. _People are terrible,_ he thinks to himself. _Everyone’s a first-time traveler at some point._  As he moves to take his place in front of the scanner and waits for the agent’s all-clear to pass through, he sees the man hurrying to grab his things from the other end of the belt. When he turns, Castiel finally catches a real glimpse of him and finds himself struck dumb by the stunning, sea-foam green of his eyes and the beauty of his face, no less so for the obvious anxiety that’s written all over it. The man doesn’t even bother to put his boots back on before disappearing into the crowd, and out of Castiel’s line of sight.

“...hello, hello, Sir? SIR!” Castiel’s jolted back to reality by the voice of the now-annoyed TSA agent as he realizes he’s been standing unmoving in front of the X-ray machine for god knows how long. He probably looks like he’s afraid to pass through it, and is surprised when he’s not “randomly selected” for further screening.

“My apologies,” he mutters, finally passing through and gathering his belongings as quickly as possible. He puts his shoes back on at a nearby bench, scanning the crowd absently and hoping to catch another glimpse of the attractive, nervous stranger but he’s nowhere to be seen. Castiel pops into one of the stores and decides to forgo answering his emails for a bit longer in favor of buying a few trashy magazines. Call it a last vacation indulgence, but he’s just not ready to force himself back to reality when that means returning to a job that he hates, an overbearing mother and a lonely, terminally empty apartment. He grabs a few packs of nuts and a couple of bottles of water as well, stuffing it all down into his bag before making his way to his assigned gate. When he arrives, he checks the screen to make sure the flight info is correct;

Fairbanks, AK to San Jose, CA, departing 11:00 AM; ON-TIME.

After that seven-hour flight, he’d catch a connecting one to Chicago, and then he’d basically be home. He’d be in bed by midnight, with plenty of time to sleep and return to work the next morning. Castiel’s already exhausted just thinking about it.

He glances around the waiting area, noting that almost none of the hard, plastic seats are occupied. True, the plane isn’t scheduled to depart for another two hours, but it’s not looking like this is going to be a full flight. That’s great news in Castiel’s book, he isn’t keen on being crammed in next to a stranger for seven hours. Perhaps he’ll even get an entire row of seats to himself. He’s just about to sit down and make himself comfortable when some movement from across the terminal catches his eye. The iron cage securing the small airport bar is currently being rolled up, showing that they’re open for business. 

More importantly, standing outside the bar waiting is the attractive man from the security line! Castiel freezes halfway to dropping into his chair, watching with interest as the man dips inside and plants himself in front of the bar as soon as the door is open. Castiel chews his lip for a moment before gathering his courage and rising to stand upright. He’s never been one to engage with strangers, preferring his bubble of personal space and solitude, but something about this man makes him want to be bold.

 _It’s not like I’ll ever even see him again,_ he thinks to himself, honestly unsure whether that’s an argument to put in the “for” or “against” column. After another moment of awkward staring, he throws caution to the wind and heads over. After a week of repeatedly failing to step outside his comfort zone and regretting it at every turn, he can do this one thing. He can strike up a conversation with a handsome stranger, someone who- if his behavior is any kind of indication- could use a friendly face and a bit of distraction too. And anyway, if the man turns out to be a jerk, he’ll already be at the bar. Really a no-lose scenario, when you think about it.

So he makes his way over, selecting a seat at the c-shaped bar that’s perpendicular to the one the green-eyed man is inhabiting. Castiel makes sure to leave several chairs in-between them as a buffer, just in case. By the time Castiel arrives, the man’s obtained three shot glasses, each filled with a dark amber liquid and lined up in front of him. But instead of drinking, he’s just staring at them; his long, slender fingers sliding across the smooth rim of the middle glass as his eyes probe its depth like it might contain the secrets to the universe.

“What can I get for you? ...Sir? Can I get you something?” For the second time since laying eyes on the man, Castiel’s so enthralled by him that he doesn’t hear himself being addressed. His mouth snaps closed and he clears his throat awkwardly, quickly shifting his eyes away and onto to the bartender where they belong, but not in time to avoid being caught by the green-eyed man. In his peripheral vision, Castiel can see the corner of the man’s mouth twitch at Castiel’s obvious embarrassment, and a slight flush colors his freckled face when he seems to realize that he was the source of Castiel’s distraction.

“Um, yes,” Castiel replies, trying to act natural but suddenly unable to think of any kind of alcohol at all, never mind remember what he likes. “I’ll have a… a Shirley Temple, please.”

The green-eyed man snorts, “What is this, junior high?”

Castiel’s head whips around, his eyebrows raised in surprise. He should have known, the man was far too pretty not to be a jerk. He tries to control his tone as he replies, “Excuse me?”

The man’s head pops up, his eyes wide as if he hadn’t realized he was speaking out loud, and then his cheeks really flush. “Oh shit, man I’m sorry. Really, dude. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m a fucking wreck right now, I haven’t flown on a plane since I was a kid and I’m…” the man hesitates then, looking down and ripping at the paper napkin in his hands, “I’m afraid,” he mumbles eventually, not looking back up.

Castiel hesitates for a moment and then takes the opening for what it is- after all, this is what he came over here for. He picks up his belongings and moves over to the chair next to the green-eyed man. He’s sitting at the corner of the bar, so Castiel’s actually sort of across and next to him at the same time, but it’s a good angle for conversation. The man looks a bit surprised to see him there and he’s definitely embarrassed, but he gives him a smile and holds out his hand. “Anyway, I’m Dean,” he says, and when Castiel takes his offered hand he squeezes warmly and firmly and Castiel swallows hard. He doesn’t miss how the man’s eyes track that movement, either. _Interesting,_ he thinks. There’s a part of his brain that wishes he were the type to go for random hook-ups in dirty airport bathrooms, but he’s _not,_ doesn’t think he could go through with it even under ideal circumstances. Circumstances like a willing, interested, drop-dead gorgeous, green-eyed man looking for a convenient distraction. Castiel licks his lips unconsciously, and the man’s eyes drop again.

“I’m Castiel,” he replies, his voice a touch rougher than it had been a few moments ago. He clears his throat again, and the green-eyed man is smiling at him now. “You can just call me Cas,” he offers, knowing his name is, according to some people, _obnoxious_.

“Cas,” Dean agrees with a nod, and he’s sipping a beer now-- _when did he get that?--_ his plush lips wrapping around the opening and taking a long pull. “I like it,” he says after he’s set the beer down. “It’s different. Suits you.”

“Does it?” Castiel can’t help but be skeptical, his name has been a sore spot for essentially his entire life. He toys with the cocktail straw sitting in the drink that’s appeared in front of him and shrugs, letting Dean know that he doesn’t have to answer. “I suppose so.”

“So… Cas, what brings you to Fairbanks International Airport Bar at 9 in the morning?” Dean’s tone is casual but genuine. Castiel likes him a little more every time he speaks, and the corner of his lips tug up, just a little.

“Just killing some time before my flight,” he replies, and then, on an impulsive whim, he decides to come clean. “I saw you,” he admits, his eyes focused on his drink as he pushes it around the countertop. “In the security line and then waiting for the bar to open. You looked…” He chances a glance up as he trails off, prepared for Dean to look disgusted or at the very least, weirded out. Instead, he finds an amused smirk and eye crinkles.

“Like a hot mess?” Dean suggests, his smirk widening.

“Like you could use a friend,” Castiel corrects lamely, wondering why he ever thought this was a good idea. Dean must think he’s insane.

But Dean surprises him by throwing his head back and laughing, the kind of laugh that makes people drop to their knees in supplication, to offer up their hands and hearts and sanity on a silver platter, and Castiel is only human. He laughs too. Dean contemplates him for a moment, his eyes still full of mirth, before sliding one of his shots over and in front of Castiel.

“I’m glad you did, Cas,” he says simply.

***

By the time Castiel’s flight is called for boarding, he and Dean are sitting so close together their knees are brushing. There’s an array of empty glasses in front of them, but neither are drunk. Sure, they’d shared a few drinks, but for the most part, they’d talked. Small talk at first, and then something deeper. Castiel’s actually hard-pressed to remember a time when he’d connected so quickly and easily with another person, and he finds himself reluctant to get on the plane. Surprisingly, Dean had been serious when he asked about Cas’ story, and he’d listened intently while Cas described his dead-end job, his boring life, and the restlessness that led him to take off spontaneously on an Alaskan adventure. He laughs long and hard when Castiel gets to the part about chickening out on the actual _adventure_ part in favor of luxury accommodations, but Castiel doesn’t feel mocked or made fun of. He smiles back and Dean replies that he wishes he’d encountered Castiel a week ago. He says he would have gladly taken Cas camping and shown him around _his_ Alaska, but then amends that his Alaska would probably have had Castiel running for the hills before the week was up.

That leads into Dean explaining how he’s actually leaving the state for good, after essentially never traveling more than 20 miles from the town he was born in. He _says_ the move is long overdue, his dad having passed away a few months ago and his little brother gone off to college in another state, but his tone is tinged with bitterness. Regardless, he was left behind in a one-horse town with a string of exes who were definitely not going anywhere anytime soon and an uncle who, despite apparently being the only thing in his hometown Dean has anything positive to say about, has told him in no uncertain terms that he deserves better than the life his dad led. And so here Dean is, ready to conquer his fear of flying in the name of starting his life over.

He expresses regret at leaving his uncle “Bobby,” behind, but seems resigned that this whole thing was inevitable. “It’s just that there’s nothing left for me there, you know? It was easier to ignore what a dead-end place it was when I had Sammy to look out for, but I guess that’s my own fault for thinkin’ he’d stick around forever.” Dean shrugs. “Anyway… sorry to talk your ear off.”

But he doesn’t really look sorry, and so Castiel doesn’t reply, just holds eye contact with Dean for a moment too long to be misconstrued for anything other than what it is. He’s lost track of time and he’s _just_ tipsy enough to be reconsidering that whole “bathroom hook-up” idea he’d touched on earlier when the overhead system crackles to life.

_“Alaskan Airlines Flight 918, service from Fairbanks to San Jose, is now pre-boarding.”_

“That’s me,” Castiel and Dean say simultaneously, heads snapping up to look at each other in shock.

“You’re kidding,” Castiel says, and Dean shakes his head no.

“Nope. San Jose, that’s less than an hour from Sammy. He’s at Stanford. Figure I’ll try and settle in the city, leave him his space but be close enough to see him when he’s able. Plus, more opportunities and all that.” Dean looks rueful as he collects his belongings, making Castiel wonder if he doesn’t think his brother will want to see him much at all. Castiel feels a pang of anger at the thought- Dean is clearly kind, and lonely, and trying his best. His brother is a fool if he doesn’t value someone like that.

As he shoulders his bags, Castiel almost doesn’t want to clarify his traveling plans to Dean, as if the reminder that this is all temporary might change anything. _But this is all temporary,_ Castiel thinks. _It’s just solidarity in an airport bar, nothing more._ Castiel swallows and has to look away from Dean’s beautiful, sweet face when he replies, “San Jose is just a stopover for me… I’ve got a connecting flight out at 7.” He wonders if he’s imagining just how much Dean’s face seems to fall at his words and rushes to add, “Perhaps we’ll get held up and I’ll miss it. An hour is a very short window to make a connecting flight.” Just as he’s wondering what possessed him to say something so silly, Dean visibly perks up a little.

“Promise you’ll let me keep you company at the bar if that happens?”

“It’s a date.” They’re grinning stupidly at each other now as they stand in front of the gate, but the mood dissolves when Dean’s seat row is called. A quick glance at his ticket tells Cas Dean’s seated a good twenty rows away from him, and they both seem to realize that this is probably it for them. Dean looks Castiel up and down once, his eyes lingering on Cas’ lips before he edges backward toward the gangway.

“So um, thanks. For hanging out. It really did help,” he says, absently licking his own lips. “I’ll… see you around, Cas,” he adds reluctantly, and Castiel nods. “Maybe we’ll catch each other in the line for the bathroom.” Castiel laughs awkwardly at Dean’s attempt to lighten the mood and watches as he hands his ticket to the stewardess before heading down the long tunnel leading to the plane. Before he turns and disappears from sight, he looks back and gives Castiel a little half wave. Castiel’s no expert on human emotions, but he thinks Dean looks sad.

 _What did you think was going to happen?_ The voice in his head chastises him for being melodramatic over a man he had no idea existed when he’d woken up that morning. _You knew you’d never see him again when you decided to say hello._ Kicking himself for bothering to step outside his comfort zone if this is what the outcome feels like, Castiel waits for his row to be called and boards the plane quickly. He can’t help but let his eyes scan the seats for Dean when he steps into the cabin, but he doesn’t see him. The plane isn’t even half full though, and on the bright side, it looks like his wish of getting an entire row of seats to himself may come true. _At least I have that going for me,_ he thinks. _Tons of space to be alone and miserable, just like at home._

Castiel settles in as boarding concludes, happily noting that his view out the window isn’t obstructed by a wing. He’ll be glad to see the mountains one last time as they take off. He’s still looking out the window trying to identify the distant mountain range as he hears the stewardess request for everyone to please finish stowing their baggage and take their seats so that the plane can push back from the gate. As the announcement finishes, Castiel feels a tap on his shoulder. When he looks up, he can’t help but break out into a grin. It’s Dean, hovering over Cas’ row of seats with his bags haphazardly slung over his shoulder. He looks equal parts sheepish and hopeful as he says, “Is this seat taken?”

By way of an answer, Castiel reaches up to grab his bags and pull them down to the middle seat. “Hello, Dean,” he says, smile still ridiculously wide. He’s truly amazed at the effect this man has on him and strangely enough, from the look on Dean’s face it seems like it might be mutual. “What made you change your mind?”

Dean shrugs and scratches at the back of his neck as he sidles into the aisle seat. “Just seemed kinda silly, you know? Sitting alone for this whole ride when it seems like maybe we’d have a better time… sitting together.” At that, he looks up and meets Castiel’s eyes, quickly flitting them away again as he continues, “I mean, it’s cool if you want your space though, no worries. Don’t feel like you have to -”

Following an impulse he’s _never_ had and not stopping to question why Dean makes it so easy to be someone he’s always wished he could, Castiel leans across the empty seat separating them and kisses Dean square on the mouth. It’s nothing explicit, just a firm, lingering press that makes Dean’s eyes slip and stay closed as Castiel pulls back, but there’s an unbelievable spark. _Oh,_ Castiel thinks, _This is what poets write about._ Staring at Dean’s still-closed eyelids, he waits for rejection, for admonishment, for anything but what comes next, which is Dean’s eyes fluttering open, emerald-dark and pupils dilated, his lips stretching into a big smile.

“Awesome,” he says, settling back into his seat and looking over at Castiel with an impish grin still plastered on his face. Castiel blushes and settles back too.

_Maybe this won’t be it after all._

***

Dean lasts the time it takes for the plane to pull back from the gate, taxi, and ascend most of the way to cruising altitude in the aisle seat. To Castiel’s delight, as soon as the flight attendant isn’t looking he unbuckles his seatbelt and slides over, pushing the pack he’d left on the middle seat over into his previously occupied aisle one. He buckles up again but positions himself so that he’s tipped onto his left hip and facing Castiel. Castiel mirrors his position, and they both lean in before dropping their heads onto the seat backs, leaving them scant inches apart. It’s far too intimate to be comfortable for two people who are essentially strangers, and yet. Castiel notices Dean’s hand is resting on the seat between them, and he takes a chance, reaching forward to interlace their fingers.

“Is this okay?” Dean’s voice is quiet, vulnerable, and Castiel wants to kiss the uncertainty off of his face. In the short time they’ve known each other, he’s already learned quite a bit about Dean but he wants more, he wants it all. Wants to _know_ Dean, inside and out. Wants them to trust each other, to have common experiences and memories and history, and it’s way, _way_ too soon to be thinking like this but Castiel’s been alone for so long. He’s been alone, and he’s failed to connect on a meaningful level with anyone he’s come across in _years,_  though not for a lack of trying on his part. 

And then here comes Dean, stumbling across his path all nerves and anxiety, welcoming Castiel’s interest in comforting him and saying he wants to know him too. Dean, with his sharp green eyes that crinkle at the edges when he _really_ smiles, with his plush pink lips that he licks when he’s nervous, with the cheekbones of a 1990’s supermodel. Dean with his obviously fit body hidden carefully under layers of flannel and self-deprecating humor, the _softness_ of him resting just underneath the hyper-masculine surface image he presents to the world. Castiel’s already taken by the empathy Dean clearly has for others, especially his brother, and most of all-- his obvious longing for someone to understand him, to care about him, to love him. How Castiel can be sure his assessment of Dean is accurate in such a short time he has no idea, but the fact remains that he is. He’s sure. He wants Dean, and if Dean’s actions are any clue- Dean wants him too.

***

The trouble starts about twenty minutes into the flight. At first, the bumps seem like regular turbulence, and Castiel writes them off as a bit of weather. He’s understandably preoccupied, what with Dean smiling at him, and telling him jokes, and stroking his palm with his thumb, but even still- he can’t help but realize that the fasten seatbelt sign is still on. There was never an announcement about the plane reaching it’s cruising altitude, something that definitely should have happened by now. Something must show on his face, and Dean’s smile fades slightly as he asks Castiel what’s up. Castiel fills him in but demurs that he’s probably worrying over nothing. Perhaps the PA system isn’t working properly, or the pilots are just waiting for the turbulence to clear before bothering to update the passengers. Castiel sits up and glances around the cabin; no one else seems concerned, least of all the flight attendants. He shrugs and slides back down, prepared to resume his conversation with Dean, but Dean’s face is wrinkled with thoughtful concern. He leans first over Castiel to look out his window, and Castiel’s breath comes up a little short at having Dean so close. But Dean leans back again, and then to the right, out over the aisle and into the row across from them so that he can peer out the opposite side window.

When he plops back into his seat a moment later, his brow is still furrowed and he’s chewing his thumbnail. He glances sideways at Castiel, who waits patiently to hear whatever it is he’s thinking. “Something’s wrong,” he says quietly, tipping his head back and looking around, presumably to ensure no one is listening. “Cas, listen. I’m no seasoned world-traveler, heck, you know what I said about the last time I was on a plane. But if there’s one thing I know about, it’s using landmarks to navigate.” He reaches into the seatback pocket in front of them and pulls out a map, his finger tracing the path from Fairbanks to San Jose. He looks up at Castiel and jabs his finger at the map. “What do you see?”

Castiel isn’t sure what he’s getting at, so he peers closer, tilting his head and squinting as he tries to figure out what Dean is getting at. “Um… water?”

“Water! Exactly,” Dean exclaims, smacking the map with the back of his hand. “From where we were inland, and the height we should have climbed by now, we should be able to see the ocean from the right side of the plane. But what do you see?”

Castiel unbuckles his belt and leans over Dean, just far enough to catch a glimpse out the window. There’s no ocean visible, just mountains and uneven terrain, as far as the eye can see. “Land,” he says to Dean after sitting back down. “What do you think that means?”

Dean shrugs. “Maybe they’re just taking a little detour. Avoiding some other planes or weather. Alaskan weather can get pretty crazy, s’not out of the realm of possibility.” He hesitates. “But you’d think they’d at least update us about it.”

“I’m going to look again, if that’s alright,” Castiel says, “Perhaps the ocean is just hard to discern from this high up.”

“Be my guest,” Dean replies, palms up and leaning back against his seat to give Castiel room. He leans farther over this time, essentially almost crawling into Dean’s lap out of necessity, and that’s when it happens. The plane bucks and slams against what feels like a giant air pocket, the loud _BOOM_ of the impact closely followed by the fuselage groaning and creaking in protest and the lights flickering. The plane sways side to side as Castiel is thrown out of his seat and across the aisle. He slams face first into one of the armrests belonging to a seat on the other side of the row and feels pain explode across his face. “Cas!” He hears Dean distantly calling his name as he struggles to not succumb to the black fuzz creeping into the edges of his vision. He blinks a few times, forcing himself upright with the unexpected assistance of a pair of strong arms. “Cas,” Dean’s voice says urgently as Dean’s face swims slowly into focus in front of him. “Cas, you’ve gotta get up. We’ve got to get buckled, okay?” Castiel shakes his head in an attempt to clear it and realizes the dark fuzziness still invading his right eye is actually wetness dripping down from his forehead. He gingerly touches his fingers to his face, they come away wet and red. “Cas, come on,” Dean says again, tugging under his arm. Castiel forces himself to listen, to comply, letting Dean help him up and leaning on him heavily as they stumble back to their row.

Dean does up Cas’ buckle, then his own, and it’s only after that when Castiel realizes the plane hasn’t stopped shaking. He’s still half-expecting a flight attendant to show up with an emergency medical kit, or an ice pack, or hell, a whiskey, but a dizzied glance to the front of the cabin reveals them all to be strapped into their jump seats, oxygen masks on their faces. No one is coming. He turns back to Dean, wanting to ask why _they_ don’t have masks, but when he does he sees Dean’s now wearing one and holding out another for Castiel. Castiel lets him place it over his face and adjust the straps, leaning back in his seat and taking a few deep breaths before trying to make sense of the whole event any further.

After a minute or so, some of the fog does start to clear from his brain with the help of the supplemental oxygen. Unfortunately, it’s just in time for him to notice the lights flicker one last time and go out for good.

Castiel turns his head to look at Dean and sees him already looking back. He turns on his hip, the way he and Dean had been before and pushes up the armrest between them so he can scoot closer. Dean’s eyes are still beautiful, but they’re sporting a glassy sheen that wasn’t there earlier. When Dean blinks slowly, a single teardrop spills over and slides down his face. Castiel puts his hand on Dean’s cheek, and Dean returns the gesture, pulling them in tight so that their foreheads touch. It’s _hot,_ it smells like burning rubber,and the plane is  _loud_ around them; Castiel thinks it sounds as if they’re being fed through a giant shredder, and for all he knows - they are. The Captain’s voice can finally be heard over the intercom, but it’s distant and in danger of being swallowed up completely by all of the other noise. Castiel catches only pieces of what is said.

_“...DOWN… -RACE FOR… GOING…-MPACT….BRACE… BRACE… BRACE…BRACE...”_

Castiel and Dean duck down together in their row, still holding each other tight. Their heads are on each other’s shoulders and Dean's hands are gripping the fabric covering Castiel's back. Castiel's hand comes up to rest on Dean's left shoulder, squeezing tight so he can pull him in and splay his other hand in the middle of Dean's back in what he hopes is a comforting gesture. The plane shakes so hard Castiel is sure it’ll vibrate apart at any moment. The roar gets impossibly louder, the air ferociously hotter, and Castiel’s neck is wet from Dean’s tears. 

His head hurts.

He thinks about his old life, the one he’d been preparing to step so easily back into just hours ago. It all seems so far away, so untouchable now. He thinks of his boring routines and his empty apartment, his judgmental, overbearing mother and his shitty job. It’s wrong, it’s so wrong that he’d do it all again- make the same choices, go on the same trip, get on the same plane - all for these precious few hours with Dean.

He tightens his arms around the terrified man next to him, watches through the window as the ground rushes towards them far, far too quickly, and waits resignedly for whatever comes next. He blacks out before the plane hits the ground.

***


	2. Color

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surviving the crash is just the first step. Now, they'll have to survive the wilderness. Or, Dean and Castiel wait for a rescue that doesn't come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some purgatory vibes up in this piece

_Black. It’s all black. The darkness, the aching void that’s somehow gone looking for and found Castiel, decides not to swallow him whole._ But as the deepest depths of it begin to stretch, to flatten and lessen and allow some cracks of light to pierce through, the pain returns with a crushing vengeance. Castiel’s awareness is shattered, he’s barely scratching the edges of consciousness, but the pain does its part to pull him back to the surface.

 _Red._ Behind his eyelids, that’s all he sees, though vaguely he knows it’s an improvement from the neverending dark. His whole body hurts, especially his head, and his right arm still feels like it’s on fire but that can’t be right… if he’d been on fire, then surely he’d be dead by now. It’s then he realizes that while he definitely has the smell of smoke and ash invading his nostrils, it’s not all-consuming. It’s actually closer to the memory of fire than fire itself, and it’s mixed with an almost fresh, clear scent- something lush and reminiscent of a wide-open field. When he concentrates, Castiel makes another passive observation- it’s _quiet._ There’s no roar of engines, no scream of twisted and stressed metal seams, no crackling of fire, no radios or sirens or helicopters racing to the rescue, and _no cries or wails from distressed survivors._ Just like that, it all comes flooding back - the plane, the ground rushing towards them, the crew’s warning to brace for impact… and _Dean._ It’s the implications of everything in that last thought that finally force his eyes open, the brightness of the sun unexpected and yet obvious in retrospect, blinding him completely to his surroundings at first.

He blinks against the harsh light, refusing to allow his eyes to close again, afraid he’ll slip back under without meaning to. After a few moments his pupils do adjust, presumably constricting down as far as they’ll go and aside from a little eye-watering clouding his vision, Castiel’s finally able to see.

 _Blue._ He sees blue. Clear, spotless blue stretching in every direction above him. _That’s the sky,_ Castiel thinks. _Okay. What else?_ He takes a deep breath and attempts to roll onto his less painful left side, an action that makes his muscles burn and his head scream. It also punches a groan from his chest; a cracked, pitiful sound that in other circumstances, Castiel would probably be embarrassed to know came from him. Still, he manages to roll over, his left arm tucked under his head for support. _More blue,_ he observes in confusion. This blue is decidedly less sky-appearing and looks a hell of a lot more like plastic. Castiel blinks a few more times and stares. _A tarp. It’s a tarp,_ he realizes. _Someone must have dragged me here. Someone else is alive._ Fighting through the pain, he rotates his left arm to plant his palm flat on the tarp and push up. This time when he groans, it’s loud and not something he could swallow, even if he wanted to. Everything that’s not within ten feet or so of him is still pretty blurry, so he’s only just able to make out the outline of the smoking wreckage of what appears to be the plane. It’s a good hundred yards away though, and Castiel’s supporting arm is already trembling with the effort of holding him up. He can feel a light sweat break out across his forehead, and within seconds he’s collapsing back down to the tarp in a heap.

It’s then that he thinks he hears his name, but everything is starting to fade and he can’t be sure- it could just be wishful thinking. _“Cas, Cas!”_ This time he’s pretty sure he’s not imagining things - the voice is far away and underwater, but there’s definitely someone out there, and that someone is calling his name. He struggles to see but the pain and the exhaustion and the _blackness_ are threatening to take over and consume him again. But he _knows_ that voice. Dean. _Dean._ The silhouette of a man’s figure, dark where it’s outlined by the sun, strides towards him from the direction of the plane. Once he’s within stone-throwing distance, Dean’s face and body shift into focus like magic, the somehow already-familiar contours of his cheeks and jawline causing something to burst and bloom deep within Castiel’s chest. And then Dean is sliding onto the tarp like he’s sliding into home base, scooping Castiel up and cradling him to his chest. Castiel can barely hang on, he’s barely awake but as his heavy eyelids drift closed he grabs Dean’s lapels and drops his head to his chest, somehow finding the strength to whisper, _“Thank God.”_

***

Castiel doesn’t wake again until the sun is setting. This time, as his eyes flutter open and he takes stock of his body he finds himself still sore, but on a much more manageable scale. His muscles ache and his right arm outright burns, but his head no longer feels like it’s the size of a hot air balloon, or like it might explode at any second from pressure. That’s possibly in part because whatever his head is resting on is soft, so probably not tarp-covered ground. _Small miracles,_ Castiel thinks, lifting his fingers to touch his face. This time, they don’t come away wet. Instead, he feels gauze and tape crisscrossing his forehead, seemingly fashioned into a makeshift bandage. When he drops his hand back down, he can’t help but take a moment to admire the sky. It’s all pinks, reds and oranges, slashing across the heavens and disappearing into dusky blue on what he presumes is the eastern horizon, tiny pinpricks of light already spotting that distant section of the canvas above him.

As he stares, Dean’s face appears over him, upside down from where he’s standing above Castiel’s head and smiling. It’s a bit of a surreal moment; such beauty and grace, the pretense of happiness, of _peace_ and _contentment,_ and the strange resounding echo inside Castiel himself that somehow feels the same, when he knows the reality of their situation is likely very dire. Not that he’s been conscious long enough to really take stock, but it seems pretty unlikely that it’s apparently been hours since their plane went down and there are exactly zero signs of rescue coming over the horizon. Dean swivels and drops into a crouch at his side, still smiling softly as he says, “Heya, Cas. How’s it hangin’?” Castiel blinks and has to again take another moment to orient himself against the surrealness- they _are_ the apparent survivors of a terrible plane crash, stranded god-knows-where in the Alaskan wilderness… right? How on earth is Dean so calm?

“How on earth are you so calm?” Castiel’s voice is dry and croaky, his throat scratching and sending him into a brief coughing fit as soon as he’s done talking. Dean slides a hand across the back of his neck, supporting him to lean forward slightly as he offers a bottle of water produced from his jacket pocket. Castiel absently notices that the label says _“Alaskan Airlines”_ as Dean skillfully twists the cap off with only one hand. Castiel can’t help but make a small noise of pleasure as the cool fluid flows across his cracked lips and over his tongue. A bit dribbles from his mouth when Dean misjudges Castiel’s next sip, the drops sliding over his chin and down his neck. Castiel swipes at the wetness with the back of his hand, the water coming away black with soot and grime, and even still, Dean’s eyes track the motion.

“Do you think you can sit up?” Dean’s voice and the expression on his face are equally full of concern, perhaps even affection and Castiel can’t look away. His face looks as dirty as Castiel’s feels and his skin is flecked with tiny cuts and bruises. None of does anything to diminish Dean’s beauty, his radiance. If anything, Castiel thinks he wears it well, like he’s perfectly comfortable walking around beat up and dirty, like he’s been doing it his entire life. They make eye contact as Castiel nods in affirmation to Dean’s question, and Dean’s hand slides down from his neck to in between his shoulder blades, applying firm pressure as he helps Castiel to sit up straight. Castiel’s head spins a little with the presumed dropping of his blood pressure, and he finds himself wanting to slump to the side, to lean into Dean, to pull him down and hold him and ignore this entire mess in the hopes that it’ll all magically disappear. Like maybe if they just close their eyes they’ll wake up as the plane touches down in San Jose, the worst of their concerns figuring out how to navigate this budding _whatever it is_ between them from different ends of the country.

Instead, he slumps forward, his face in his hands and his elbows resting on his knees. The action reminds him of the gauze taped to his head, and his fingers dance over it gingerly. He looks up at Dean, “Did you do this?”

Dean nods. “You’ve got some other injuries we need to look at sooner rather than later, but I didn’t want to risk causing you more pain while you were knocked out…Lucid dreaming and all that? Seemed like sleeping off the worst of that whack to the head was probably not an option so I just kind of… cut off the sleeve of your jacket and wrapped your arm in gauze,” he says, a little guiltily. Dean drops from the crouch he’s been balanced in down to his butt, causing the tarp to crinkle and scrape against the ground where he lands. He inclines his head to the right, clearly meaning for Castiel to look where he’s pointing, and for the first time Castiel takes in clearly the mangled wreckage of the plane.

His breath is sharp and sticky in his lungs as his eyes rove over the twisted and burned metal, the torn up wings, the debris field that seems to go on forever across the rocks and into the distance. The fire’s long burned itself out, but the smell of ash and smoke and something far more pungent and terrifying remains hanging thickly in the air, and Castiel’s just not going to think too deeply about that, he’s not. The nose of the plane is fairly torn up, but the front of the passenger cabin seems to be basically intact. In fact, from where Castiel’s sitting he thinks he can pick out the very window that he and Dean had been huddled on the other side of mere hours earlier. It’s just sitting there, their portion of the plane almost harmless looking - if you ignore the singe marks, anyway.

“How… how are we alive? If no one else… how did we…?” He trails off, eyes still fixed on the plane, not entirely sure he wants to know the answer to his half-hearted question.

Dean picks at a hole in the tarp. “I guess the answer to those questions would be… me.” Castiel can’t help but raise his eyebrows a smidge as he glances sidelong at Dean, but he waits patiently for Dean to continue. He’s not known the other man long, and he’s aware that he can’t possibly know him _well_ , but Dean’s demeanor has shifted abruptly, and Castiel’s got a pretty solid inkling of where this is going, insofar as Dean’s psyche is concerned. Dean takes a deep breath and blurts out his entire story, eyes not lifting from the tarp the entire time he speaks. “I blacked out before the impact. You did too, guessing that had something to do with the oxygen flow or the change in altitude or… I got no idea, honestly, but we were both out cold. When I came to, the plane was on the ground and there was fire everywhere. People were screaming. You… your legs were trapped. The seats had wrenched off where they were bolted down, and you were holding me. Pretty sure that’s the only reason I didn’t hit my head. But anyway, somehow the way things ended up, you were trapped, dude. I pulled myself out and… fuck, Cas. The people…” Dean’s voice gets shaky, and he stops talking, taking a moment to get himself together. Castiel places a cautious hand on his knee, and Dean doesn’t push him away.

“I tried so damn hard, Cas. I tried so damn hard to get them out. But some of them were trapped like you, and some were confused. They just sat there, belted in and breathing all that smoke… I had to bust open the emergency exit with the beverage cart, man. The flight attendants were all dead in their seats and the door was jammed shut or something. I was just standing next to their bodies, ramming the cart into the door, and- shit,” Dean covers his face with his hand. “Fuck,” he adds, dropping his hand and looking to the sky, his eyes blinking back the welling tears.

“Dean, you don’t have to -”

Dean waves him off. “Naw, man, I’m cool.” He uncaps the bottle of water that’s fallen between them and takes a long swig. “I’m cool. S’just, a lot, you know. All those people…” He shakes his head, “And I did _not_ leave you. I just figured I’d get the door open and then come back, but by the time I did, the fire was insane. It was all I could do to get you out, never mind anyone else. I did everything I could- _everything_. Took some kind of superhuman, adrenaline-fueled act of God to lift that bench up and yank you out but somehow… Anyway. I- I had you, and I got us both out of the plane, and then I don’t know. I just remember I had you over my shoulders and I kept telling myself not to let go. Think I passed out face down in the dirt.” He’s got the label torn most of the way off of the bottle now, and as he’s shredding it in his hands, Castiel is momentarily transported back to the bar where they met, Dean anxiously shredding the cocktail napkin to calm his nerves about the flight.

“Dean.” Castiel gently places his hand over Dean’s fidgeting ones. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You saved my life, and you saved your own. Those people-” Castiel pauses. He doesn’t want to be unkind or disrespectful of the dead, but he honestly believes it’s a miracle that even he and Dean survived that crash. He thinks about the ground rushing towards them and recalls his certainty that _no one_ would be walking away once they hit the ground. And yet, here they are. Thanks to Dean. Brave, sweet Dean, who is apparently beating himself up for not being born an actual superhero. “You can’t save everyone, my friend,” Castiel says, squeezing Dean’s hand, “Though you try.”

Dean clears his throat and swipes at his eyes with the back of his hand. “Yea, well. Stow the hallmark. We should probably deal with the rest of your injuries before the lights really go out.” He gestures at the darkening sky. “When I came back to pull you free, your arm was kind of on fire.” Dean looks guilty all over again but Castiel takes this news in stride, nodding and still holding onto Dean’s hand. Dean starts to pull away and stand, continuing to speak as he does, “Once the fire went out I was able to go back and get some stuff out of the plane… We can go over all of what we have later, but there’s a first aid kit. The crew cabin had a pretty nice emergency medical kit that made it through.”

Castiel catches Dean’s sleeve using his good hand before he can get far, asking the question he’s been scared of having answered ever since he woke. “Dean… why has no one come for us? Surely a distress call was made? Don’t these planes have GPS?”

Dean hesitates before answering. “Cas, man, I’ve been asking myself the same thing for hours,” he finally says, looking up at the sky. “I honestly don’t know. But listen,” he says, dropping back into a crouch. “You got nothin’ to worry about, okay? I’ve lived in Alaska my whole life. When I was a kid my dad used to make me camp out in sub-zero temperatures just to teach me how to do it properly. I’ve been stuck out in way worse conditions than this, with way less gear. We’re going to be fine here until someone finds us. I’ll make sure of it. Bear Grylls ain’t got nothing on a Winchester.”

“Winchester,” Castiel says with a small smile as he realizes this is the first time he’s hearing Dean’s last name. “It suits you.”

Dean grins, and the sight lifts Castiel’s spirits. “Right, so, first lesson of survival - there’s an order to how you gotta do stuff, so you make sure to take care of all the things that are most likely to kill you before they get a chance. Shelter, water, fire, food, signaling. You can add in stuff like first aid if you’re bleeding to death, but generally, you’re not supposed to deviate. While you were out, like I said, I got some stuff from the plane and was able to knock a few of those off the to-do list. We’ve got a first aid kit, a couple of tarps, some bottles of water. There’s some undamaged luggage still in the cargo bay, too. Tomorrow morning we can maybe check that stuff out. You know, if we aren’t rescued by then,” he amends quickly, standing again and moving out of Castiel’s line of sight.

Castiel shifts around so he can see what Dean’s doing and finds himself looking at the most pathetic makeshift shelter he’s ever seen, not that he’s any kind of expert. He has to stifle a chuckle and hopes Dean doesn’t hear, but the structure really does look as if a strong breeze will rip it apart. Dean has a tarp draped over two beverage carts, random debris tacking it down on top and on the ground. There’s a second tarp spread on the ground beneath them. The space is just wide enough for two grown men to shove in together, and Castiel has to shelve some highly ill-timed and inappropriate thoughts about being pressed flush against Dean for an entire night. As appealing as that does sound, he’s not sure the makeshift tent will provide much in the way of actual shelter and safety, and as such, an idea pops into his head. He almost doesn’t dare to hope, sure the two of them won’t be lucky enough to pull off _two_ miracles in one day, but if the tarps are the alternative, then it’s at least worth a shot.

“Dean?” Castiel calls and Dean pokes his head out from around the beverage cart. “Is there any reason I shouldn’t go check out the luggage situation now? Any safety concerns, that is.” He gestures towards the wreckage. “It’s just that, I’ve had a thought. I’m assuming the luggage that survived were the pieces loaded into the forward section of the cargo hold.” Dean nods in affirmation, and Castiel looks back at the plane, squinting in thought. “It seems logical that the bags loaded first would be from the passengers who checked in earliest.” Dean raises his eyebrows but doesn’t interrupt. 

“Dean, I checked in quite early, if you recall. And part of the baggage I checked, was a tent.”

***

“Goddamn Cas, I could fucking kiss you,” Dean exclaims, dropping the last of Castiel’s salvaged baggage unceremoniously down next to a pile of other pieces. He’d also managed to locate his own checked duffle, which, despite being partially melted still contained an unharmed sleeping bag as well. “Between this tent, your sleeping bag and mine, we’re basically glamping,” Dean adds gleefully as he paws through one of Castiel’s bags, leaving Castiel to marvel at the strangeness of the word _glamping_ coming out of Dean Winchester’s mouth. “Look at all this,” he says excitedly, pulling out a handful of vacuum-sealed pouches, “Water packets, MREs, trail mix? Here I was thinking we were gonna be eating spit-roasting vole with a side of airline peanuts. This is _awesome_!”  

“I got them at Cabela’s,” Castiel says uncertainly. “The salesman had me pegged from a mile away, I’m afraid.” He thinks for a moment and then amends, “I suppose that turned out to be quite a good thing.”

“Ya think?!”

Castiel’s brow furrows, and for once, his curiosity gets the best of him. “Why were you traveling with a sleeping bag, Dean?”

Dean hesitates, continuing to pick apart Castiel’s suitcase and appearing to be deliberately avoiding making eye contact. Finally, he shrugs. “You know, survivalist and all that. My dad taught me to always be prepared. Plus it… it’s not like I know anyone in San Jose. Wasn’t sure I could even count on Sammy taking me in, even for a night or so. Kinda figured I might be roughing it for a bit.” He starts gathering their spoils and relocating everything farther away from the still-smoking, awful-smelling husk of plane. Castiel gathers what’s left and follows, returning to what he supposes amounts to their makeshift campsite. Dean’s already built a small fire with some brush and his pocket lighter, responsibly ringing the outer edge with rocks. He starts setting up Castiel’s tent ten or so feet away and doesn’t comment on his situation in San Jose any further. Castiel lets it go, for now.

Dean gets the tent up fairly quickly, waving off Castiel’s offers of assistance despite his assurances that he’d set the tent up three times in his living room successfully. Dean moves with practiced ease, threading the lightweight metal frame through the tent fabric and stomping stakes into the ground with his boot. He forgoes the rain canopy, balling it up and tossing it to the rear of the tent so it doesn’t blow away. In the meantime, Castiel busies himself with preparing one of the MRE-style food pouches. The one he selects claims to be “Beef Stroganoff,” though Castiel’s brief glimpse inside the bag definitely activates his skepticism. He boils some water in a tin coffee pot retrieved from his bag and congratulates himself on his own foresight. He thinks about bundling up, but his arm still needs some attention and the idea of pulling it in and out of multiple layers of clothing doesn’t sound appealing, so he waits. Despite the fire, by the time Dean’s done with the tent, Castiel’s really shivering. Despite this being technically summer in Alaska, Castiel had learned during his week-long stay that didn’t mean much when it came to the temperatures, especially at night. And out here in the wild it seemed like when darkness fell, so did the temperature. The wind was picking up a bit, as well.

“Alright, we’re good to go,” Dean announces, clapping his hands together and rubbing them vigorously over the fire. He notices Castiel shivering and motions to the tent. “Go on in, Cas. I put your sleeping mats and the bags down. I’m just going to secure some things out here, and I’ll be right in, okay?” Castiel nods and turns to head for the tent, bringing along their little meal and a water packet. Dean’s hand on his shoulder stops him, and he turns to meet Dean’s gaze. “Hey, you alright?”

It’s an absurd question, really. There are a million ways in which Castiel is definitely _not_ alright, but it’s not like any of them are Dean’s fault, or really, as if Dean is any better off than he is. And if he’s being honest, he kind of _is_ alright. As alright as one could possibly be, in this situation. He’s alive, which is more than he’d expected, and so is Dean. Sure, he’s still in pain, and now he’s getting pretty damn cold, and he’s hungry and worried about their lack of rescue, but all of those things are really just kind of hard to remember when Dean’s looking at him _like that_.

“Yes,” he answers honestly, his blue eyes riveted to and searching Dean’s green ones. When Dean wraps his fingers around the bicep of his good arm and tugs him close, it feels like solace. When his arm wraps around Castiel’s shoulders and draws him in tight, it feels like a harbor in a storm. And when his lips brush Castiel’s, it feels like home.

“Cas,” he says, their foreheads still pressed together, “Trust me, okay? We’re getting out of this. _I’m_ going to get us out of this, I promise. We’ll be home before you know it watching Dr. Sexy reruns until we’re bored out of our skulls and stuffed so full of cheeseburgers we won’t be able to move.” Castiel laughs, and his laugh makes Dean smile. He doesn’t comment on Dean’s fantasy apparently being constructed to have “home” painted as an ambiguous place where the defining feature is their togetherness. “Scoot,” Dean says, shoving him gently with his chest. “I’ll be right there.”

Castiel’s tent is spacious, wide enough to fit two large bedrolls and still have a couple feet of room on each side. Castiel drags the suitcase containing his clothes and personal items in behind him. He knows it’s ludicrous, but despite his happiness to be alive and his trust in Dean, he’s still a bit unsettled. Okay, but unsettled. He can’t help but want his familiar things close. He does leave his shoes outside the door, though. He’s not an animal. It should be dark inside the tent, but Dean’s thought ahead and already placed Castiel’s 45-day-burn LED Camp Lantern in the corner. At the welcome sight of the bright little light, Castiel finds he’s never been more grateful to be an over-preparer. He gingerly exchanges his dirty, bloody socks and dress slacks for a thick pair of sweatpants and wool socks. His legs have some pretty spectacular bruises on their shins but that seems to be the extent of their injuries. He’s really very lucky.

He eats his share of the stroganoff (not as bad as it looks) and is just about to tackle his busted arm when Dean slides into the tent, dropping his boots outside and pulling the zipper closed behind him. He huffs into his hands, rubbing them together vigorously for warmth. “Hey, Grizzly Adams, please tell me you have some gloves in that Mary Poppins bag of yours. Apparently, mine were flash fried.”

“Of course, Dean, “ Castiel says. “You should have said something - I have two or three pairs. One pair has grips,” he adds proudly.  

“My hero,” Dean replies teasingly, sitting down cross-legged at Castiel’s side and snagging the bag of rehydrated dinner. Dean wolfs it down and doesn’t appear to have any complaints. He’s brought the first aid bag in with him, and after tossing his trash aside he pulls it close for easy access, relocating the light so it’s next to them as well. His face turns serious.

“I don’t want to scare you or anything, Cas, but we’ve gotta get this thing clean. I’m no doctor or anything but, I took this EMT course with Sam a couple summers ago.” Dean flushes a little as if the idea that he’d done something academic for fun is embarrassing. “Sam just wanted it for his college applications but it was pretty cool. Anyway, they did this whole section on survival first-aid 'cuz we were in Alaska and all, and they said burns can get infected really easily. So we should clean yours, disinfect it, and bandage the hell out of it to try and keep it sterile. But unless you happen to have a full pharmacy in that bag, we’re lacking a bit in the painkiller department. There’s some Tylenol, but…”   

Castiel nods his understanding. “This is going to hurt. It’s alright, Dean. I appreciate your concern and your expertise. On the bright side, if I scream loud enough, perhaps someone will hear and come to our rescue.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “That was like a bad dad joke, Cas,” he says, pulling out various supplies. “Seriously though, I’m sorry.” His eyes are wide and sincere when he finally makes eye contact with Castiel again. They’re less than a foot apart, and Castiel’s certainly tempted to ignore his throbbing arm in favor of seeing what making out in a tent with Dean is like. _Inappropriate,_ his brain scolds. _You don’t even know if he’s comfortable with that. He’s stuck next to you in this tent whether he wants to be or not, don’t make it weird._ So Castiel settles for stroking his thumb across Dean’s cheek.

“You have nothing to apologize for, Dean. Please,” he says, lifting his right arm to show he’s ready. Hesitantly, Dean starts to unravel the gauze bandages. He’s quiet as he reveals more and more of Castiel’s arm. The pain is no small thing, but Castiel grits his teeth and powers through it. It’s _looking_ at the injury that’s really difficult, though - almost the entirety of the back of his forearm is blistered - the skin that isn’t is bright red and shiny, painful to even think about, never mind touch. Castiel knows the burn stages, and he’s grateful that none of it seems to be third degree - the Alaskan wilderness doesn’t seem like a great place to deal with nerve damage or tissue exposure.

Fortunately, miraculously, he seems to have escaped that particular fate. There are a few spots where the synthetic material of his light traveling jacket melted onto his skin, and Dean tries to carefully remove them. That goes over like a ton of bricks to the chest, and he ends up leaving a few pieces where they are instead of risking ripping more of Castiel’s skin off. He washes the entire burn and pours iodine over it, since that’s the only antimicrobial agent they have, wrapping the cleaned area carefully in several layers of gauze until Castiel’s trussed up properly from wrist to elbow.

By the time he’s finished, Castiel’s broken out into a light sweat, his breathing is getting hard to regulate, and he’s sure he’s looking pretty pale. Dean looks distressed at his state and Castiel has to wave off several more attempted apologies. He finally relents and instead focuses on helping Castiel into a new t-shirt and soft, heavy sweatshirt (his right arm folded inside instead of stuffed down into the armhole) and then tucking him carefully into his sleeping bag before crawling into his own. But after several minutes, Castiel’s still shivering, and Dean looks like he’s not faring too well either.

“This is stupid,” Dean finally says from inside his cocoon. “Listen Cas, this whole situation is weird as hell and I’m honestly lost. I don’t wanna do something that’s gonna make you uncomfortable or weird you out, not just because we’re stuck here together but…” he gets quiet for a moment, and then mumbles into his sleeping bag. “Also ‘cuz I like you, and stuff. I guess, on the off chance that you don’t hate me when we get out of here for being a constant reminder of this nightmare, then… I don’t want to screw this thing up.” He pauses before adding, “But also, I’m fucking cold, and it’d be a lot warmer if you were in here with me.”

Castiel blinks, a bit stunned at Dean’s unprompted revelation, but when it sinks in he smiles, surprised but relieved to find out he and Dean are somehow on the same page yet again.

***

They’re both thrilled to discover that their sleeping bags can be zipped together, creating one giant, two-person sleep sack. When Castiel’s settled onto his side, injured arm still tucked up and head pillowed on Dean’s shoulder, he wraps his arm around Dean’s waist and holds tight. In return, Dean snuggles down and rests his own head on Castiel’s hair, sighing contentedly as the fingers of his left hand slip just under the hemline of Castiel’s shirts to trace patterns on his skin. “Much better,” he murmurs, and Castiel nods sleepily in agreement. “Mm, forgot to tell you. Flare gun’s right by the tent zipper. Careful of it if you go out to piss or whatever. Don’t shoot it unless you’re sure. Could only find three cartridges.” 

The abrupt reminder of the reality of their situation jolts Castiel awake, and he stays that way for quite a while, listening to Dean’s quiet snores and taking comfort in his warm body and the beat of his heart drumming rhythmically in his ear. He doesn’t fall asleep until the darkest part of the night is over, faint slivers of light punching up through the distant horizon, waiting to hear the sounds of a rescue that never comes.

***


	3. Survival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel and Dean get closer. Certain discoveries make it clear that it's time to take their survival into their own hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: this is not a how-to survival guide, but a work of fiction. While I know some things and have done copious research, the way Dean and Cas handle things may not always be the smartest or most "correct" way to do them. Cas isn't a survivalist and may not always have the "best" gear. If you're planning to wander off into the Alaskan wilderness, please do not utilize this story as a packing guide. This has been the weirdest PSA ever, you may now return to your regularly scheduled binging of gay fanfic.
> 
> *Warning for very short, non-explicit flashback to some one-sided Cas/Meg and brief FWB Cas/Balthazar.

Back when Castiel was a teenager, he’d been relatively sure there was something wrong with him. At age 15 his mother had sat him down and given him “the talk,” fairly standard as far as awkward parent-child conversations about sex go, if a bit late, at least according to the notes he’d compared with his friends. Though, because his friends were Balthazar and Meg, they’d had quite a bit of information of their own to contribute, whether Castiel wanted to hear it or not. In the end, he’d sat there listening politely, the first of many times he’d be stuck doing so when it came to those two and their sexual exploits. Castiel himself had nothing to add and no inclination to go looking for the firsthand experience necessary to do so. He just… wasn’t interested. The idea that he simply _didn’t care_ about sex and having sex and talking about sex turned out to be unfathomable to his two promiscuous best friends and was, therefore, the source of endless conversation and contemplation long into their twenties. The two of them had found Castiel’s apparent disinterest _so_ fascinating and so unbelievable that they’d concocted endless schemes in a bid to uncover the elusive “thing” they were sure would finally pique Castiel’s (dick’s) interest.

And when that didn’t work, Meg had tried to seduce him. She’d climbed the trellis outside his room with a bag full of candles, condoms, and lube, stripping down to some lacy lingerie before making herself comfortable in Castiel’s pristinely-made bed. When Castiel had wandered into his room that evening, he’d squeezed the Capri sun he was holding so hard juice had shot out of the straw and caught Meg right in the face. Meg being Meg, she had simply taken the hit in stride, copping a joke about that “not being the type of facial I was expecting, Clarence,” and sliding a now-sticky manicured hand down her abdomen. Looking back, Castiel realizes now that she interpreted his reaction as a sign of arousal and not of simple shock. In the end, Meg had gone back out his window in a huff, annoyed that Castiel was far more concerned about the juice now staining his sheets than the self-proclaimed “sweet thing” wrapped in them. Ultimately, Meg was at least less offended than April and Nora would each be years down the road, both of them leaving in similar huffs after Castiel would again clinically look over the offering of their near-naked bodies before succinctly turning them down.

Why everyone was so infatuated with the idea of sex, he simply hadn’t understood.

Balthazar’s subsequent seduction attempt had gone over slightly better than Meg’s, a fact he still reminds her of to this day. His tall, fit body had appeared in Castiel’s window much in the same way Meg had done, but this time, fueled by annoyance at the constant teasing and fed up with uninvited guests letting themselves into his room, Castiel’s curiosity got the best of him. He’d let Balthazar strip, looked his body over much in the same way he’d done to Meg, and then on a pure lark let Balthazar press him back into his sheets and disappear between his legs. And it was… fine. To be clear, it wasn’t that there was anything mechanically wrong with Castiel, not at all. His equipment worked and he was no stranger to occasional self-release, but the draw of sharing that with other people just… wasn’t there. So while he’d found Balthazar’s ministrations pleasant and pleasurable, he _didn’t_ find it particularly different from taking care of himself. And to Balthazar’s confusion and dismay, it did _not_ ignite an unquenchable sexual flame.

“Inscrutable,” Balthazar had said as he put his clothes back on. “That’s what you are, Cassie. It’s too bad you could give a shit about sex, both men and women dig a man of mystery. Ah, well. I suppose we can’t all be Casanovas, pun intended. I’m sure you’ll find… whatever it is that lights your fire someday.” He’d shrugged and slipped out the window, and that had been the last time Balthazar had pushed him about sex. From then on, both he and Meg seemed to accept that Castiel simply was who he was, and sex was not a priority or interest for him. Not that this acceptance stopped them in any way from sharing their own exploits, because Castiel just wasn’t that lucky. But his friends accepted him, and as such, Castiel accepted himself. Perhaps he’d come off of the assembly line a bit cracked, but if it didn’t bother him, he didn’t see why it should bother anyone else.

And it didn’t- bother him that is, not for years. But when college had ended and his friends began to pair off and settle down with long-term partners, Castiel realized he was lonely. Apparently, not craving sex didn’t mean he wasn’t interested in romance or companionship. But trying to find a partner who would give him a chance and get to know him when he couldn’t promise or guarantee them sexual intimacy proved almost impossible. Castiel found that he _did_ feel occasional spikes of attraction to people that he had gotten to know, that he cared about, that he’d made a meaningful connection with. But getting to that point without being made to feel pressured to provide sex often stressed and frayed that spark before it could ever really bloom into full-blown sexual desire. Not to mention, feeling pressured to have sex didn’t tend to do much for a budding emotional connection, either.

And so by the time he’d turned thirty, he’d mostly given up. In lieu of searching for a partner who wouldn’t judge him, who would accept him and his quirks -his needs- for what they were, he’d thrown himself into his work and climbed the corporate ladder of the accounting department at Sandover Holdings International. He’d forgone vacations and dating and really, building any kind of personal life at all for himself for _years._ He’d gotten used to his empty apartment, his bare social calendar, his life dominated by numbers and reports and endless emails with ever-shortening deadlines. These days, the only non-coworkers who call his phone are his mother and Balthazar, the latter not even living in the same country as Castiel anymore.

A man can only live that kind of life for so long before snapping.

Which is again, what’s led him to his current predicament- stranded in the Alaskan wilderness, recovering from injuries sustained during a _plane crash_ that he barely survived _._ It’s almost too unbelievable, in the context of Castiel’s boring, empty life. Perhaps this is some kind of karmic punishment for all those years of not trying, of being content with _dull._

But as Castiel’s eyes blink open and he finds himself face-to-face with Dean, the dark, thick splay of his closed eyelashes fluttering gently against his freckled cheeks, he’s hard-pressed to feel like he’s being punished, despite the circumstances. But he _is_ feeling something. After all these years of carrying around and internalizing the ideas that he’s broken, inadequate, _weird-_ that he just plain doesn’t _fit_ simply because of his lack of sexual interest - today, Castiel’s aroused. His arm is still wrapped around Dean’s waist and Dean’s is tucked under his shoulders, keeping their bodies close. So close in fact, that their hips are pressed flush together, and while it may only be morning wood on Dean’s part, it’s clear that Castiel isn’t the only one _feeling something._ Dean’s already most of the way to hard in his sweatpants, and Castiel has to resist the urge to trace the outline of it with the tips of his fingers. His toes tingle inside his wool socks, not from cold or pain or fear, but from _want._

 _Finally,_ Castiel thinks, slightly overwhelmed, _After all these years, this is what it’s supposed to feel like._  There’s an unfamiliar but not unpleasant tugging in the pit of his stomach and a burning warmth flooding increasingly to his groin. Castiel can’t resist rocking his hips slightly, and the barest brush of his hard cock against Dean’s own, even through multiple layers of clothing has him suppressing a groan. He forces himself to still his body, to control himself- it’s not right to touch Dean this way for the first time without his explicit consent. But when Castiel raises his eyes to settle on Dean’s face again, those lush lashes are blinking over bright pools of green, looking down at Castiel with undisguised interest.

“Hello Dean,” Castiel whispers, and his lips actually tingle, actually almost _hurt_ with how much he wants to lean forward and kiss the man in front of him. “Is this…” He pauses to lick his lips, Dean’s eyes tracking the motion intently. He squeezes Dean’s hip and shifts his own pelvis forward so there’s no mistaking his meaning when he says, “Is this alright?”

Dean nods slowly, and then he’s leaning forward, catching Castiel’s bottom lip between his teeth and biting hard. Castiel’s grip on Dean’s hip tightens, and he can’t help but let out several small, happy noises as Dean releases his lip and sucks it fully into his mouth, licking over the bite gently with his tongue. “Mmm,” Dean says, presumably in response to Castiel’s moans. “S’really hot when you make those noises, Cas,” he adds, in between kisses and nips to Castiel’s mouth. Castiel feels himself blushing and pulls back a little to swallow and catch his breath. As soon as he meets Dean’s gaze again they dive back in, Dean’s hand coming up to thread in Castiel’s lost-cause-messy hair so he can move and tilt his head in the direction he wants him. Their tongues touch and slide and Castiel feels lightheaded, dizzy with lust and the intense satisfaction of having Dean in his arms like this, hard and muscled in all the right places, soft and pliant in others. He takes a chance and rocks his hips again, the friction he gets and the spark-like feeling shooting through his veins so much more than he ever could have imagined.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he hears Balthazar’s voice promising him that someday he’ll find his _thing,_ the “whatever it is” that will finally light his fire, finally make him _want._

Castiel definitely wants.

“I think… Dean, I think I- I want you,” he pants into Dean’s mouth, his own open and unable to stop lipping at Dean’s face.

Dean chuckles. “Yea, sweetheart. I kinda got that memo.”

Castiel pulls back then, forcing himself to think with his upstairs brain if only for a moment. All of his life experience, every time someone’s expected something from him that he wasn’t ready, wasn’t interested in giving - he won’t do that to Dean. As wonderful, as all-encompassing, as beautiful and thrilling as this _want_ flowering in his chest and spreading through his body is, he’s not interested in it if Dean doesn’t feel the same. He places a hand over Dean’s heart and takes a moment to stabilize his breathing before speaking. “I want you to want me,” he finally blurts out. “And it’s alright if you don’t, truly. I would never want to force something on you, or make you feel like you were required to want me, simply because I want you.”

Dean tilts his head a little, his face slightly confused, but like he’s on the verge of understanding. “Cas, I do want you,” he replies.

Castiel still hesitates. “It’s very important to me to be sure,” he says, his eyes dropping to where his hand rests on Dean’s smooth chest.

Dean doesn’t reply to that at first, instead taking Castiel’s hand from his chest and dragging it down his body to his groin. Castiel’s palm burns as his hand is pressed down over the hard line in Dean’s pants. Dean’s eyebrows quirk in amusement as he asks, “Does this feel like I’m not interested?”

Castiel sighs quietly. “Of course not, Dean. But physiologic response is a very real phenomenon. I didn’t want to presume.”

Dean smiles then and replies, “I’m really okay with you presuming that I want you, sunshine.”

Castiel licks his lips again and nods. “Well I- that’s excellent news,” he says, settling his hand back on Dean’s hip. “I apologize if… I’m not well versed in how these things usually go. My experience is… limited. Again I understand if that’s not particularly enticing to you.”

Castiel’s a bit surprised when Dean lets out a frustrated sigh. “Cas, man, I’ll engrave it onto stone if it’ll make you feel better but I really wish you’d trust me when I say that I _want_ you. I find you enticing as hell if we’re being frank.” He pauses. “Are _you_ okay with this? You know that we don’t have to do anything you don’t want either, right?”

Castiel rocks his hips in response, and that causes Dean to bite his lip, his eyes going hooded and dark. “I’ve never wanted someone like this,” he admits, the high of arousal making him brave.

Dean surprises him again when he brushes their noses together softly and replies, “Me neither.” And then they’re kissing again, slow and deep and thorough. Dean cups his face with both hands as he licks into his mouth, Castiel helpless in his grip in all the best ways, marveling at his own desire to spread himself out under Dean, to offer himself up, to feel Dean over him and under him and inside and around him. Dean gently rolls him onto his back, mindful of his injured arm, always considerate, endlessly sweet. Dean crouches over him, lifting the sleeping bag up with his back as he does. A blast of cold air sweeps into their previously toasty huddle, but Castiel barely has a chance to shiver before Dean’s tugging them down further inside and pulling the thick fabric up over their heads. He kisses the shell of Castiel’s ear, letting his teeth drag as he pulls away to whisper, “Better?” Castiel nods, still trying to figure out what exactly he should be doing with his hands, but then Dean is mouthing over his jaw and dropping his own hands down to hold Castiel’s waist, the scratch of his teeth over Castiel’s stubble matching the drag of his nails over his flank. The combined sensations have him arching up, worries about what he _should_ be doing forgotten, hands scrabbling at Dean’s shoulders and back to try and drag him down.

He’s biting his lip without realizing it, trying mostly in vain to stifle the needy noises that are threatening to pour like a waterfall from his mouth. He’s torn between wanting to be open and authentic with Dean, and still being a bit embarrassed about his lack of experience, but Dean’s smooth, and confident, and he steers Castiel around the curves with ease. Castiel feels his thumb come up to tub at his bottom lip, freeing it from between his teeth and soothing over it gently. “Don’t,” he says,” locking their lips together and then pulling away, “Wanna hear you.”

There’s still a part of Castiel that, despite their instant connection, despite the very real danger they’re both still very much in, despite Dean’s own assurances to the contrary, wonders if he’s dreaming. Because _this,_ this entire thing, feels like something that happens to other people. Something Castiel would watch play out on a Lifetime movie at four PM on any given Saturday. Despite the willing body above him, the insistent lips on his neck, the hard cock under his fingers, he can’t help but think that _Dean,_ that someone as beautiful and wonderful as him, couldn’t possibly be real- couldn’t possibly want Castiel back.

And yet, here he is, pulling back with a concerned look on his face to run careful fingers over Castiel’s cheek and jaw. A rush of shame floods through Castiel’s body, souring and replacing the _want_ with something tainted and bitter. _Even when it’s right I still get it wrong,_ he thinks and prays Dean doesn’t hate him. “I’m so sorry, Dean,” he gulps, pulling the edge of the sleeping bag down for some fresh air. “I do- I do want you,” he adds in a rush. Dean stays crouched above him for a moment, but he doesn’t look upset. His eyes are still soft and full of affection, their beauty only marred with his concern.

“This is a lot,” he finally says, dropping onto his right hip at the outside of Castiel’s thigh. “I mean, even without the whole near-death experience.”

Castiel nods, relieved to be off the hook. “Dean, I- when I said that I hadn’t done this before, it was a bit of an understatement.” Castiel pauses, but Dean just watches him intently, waiting to see if he wants to continue. Castiel takes a deep breath. “It’s not that… I’ve had a couple of sexual experiences, that is to say, partners.” He clears his throat. “But I’ve never… I don’t _feel_ attraction in this way. I’m pretty sure there’s a word for it in the spectrum acronym, but I can never remember it. It hasn’t particularly mattered before, I suppose.”

Dean nods slowly, his brow furrowed. “And… you didn’t feel like you could tell me that you weren’t attracted to me in that way. Was that what you meant when you said about a physiologic response?”

Castiel pushes up then and takes Dean’s hand. “No, no that’s not it at all. Dean, I’m very much attracted to you. That’s what I’m struggling with. It’s all so _much,_ and I’ve never felt any of it before. I’m awkward and I keep getting overwhelmed by all the sensations... I don’t want to let you down. I’m so sorry. This is… very embarrassing.”

For the third time since waking Dean surprises Castiel, this time by throwing his head back and laughing. “Dude, are you seriously apologizing for being _too_ turned on by me? Which part of this is embarrassing? The part where no one on the planet has gotten your motor running except for me, or the part where what we’re doing feels so good you’re losing some self-control? Cas, those are all _good_ things. And I’m not gonna lie, the idea of being the first dude you’ve ever been attracted to is really hot. But sweetheart, it’s fine if you want to slow things down. You know, we’ve really only known each other twenty-four hours.” He maintains eye contact and squeezes Castiel’s hand for emphasis.

Castiel squints. “You’re not upset? Again, I’m not overly experienced with this sort of thing but I’ve been lead to believe this sort of mid-coital interruption can be very frustrating.”  

Dean just huffs a little laugh and shakes his head. “Man, who _are_ you?” His tone is light though, and he ruffles Castiel’s hair before leaning forward to kiss him chastely, scooting forward and out of their warm cocoon.  “C’mon, I’ll help you get dressed and then I’ll make you a gourmet breakfast of instant coffee and powdered eggs.” He pauses, then turns back to Castiel, an accusing finger pointed in his direction. “You _did_ pack coffee, right?”

Castiel tilts his head to the left and pulls the covers around his neck. “Does a bear shit in the woods?”

Dean snorts. “Let’s hope we don’t have to find out.”

***

They’re sitting side by side on the same tarp Castiel had woken up on almost twenty-four hours prior, Dean having folded and relocated it to the fireside as a seating area of sorts. It’s still chilly, probably just shy of 50 degrees, but with the sun shining unobstructed Dean voices reasonable confidence that it’ll get up into the sixties today. “End of August, beginning of September is kinda unpredictable up here,” he explains. “Could be in the twenties, could be almost seventy. Might get some snow, might get some rain, might freeze your nipples off, might be able to walk around in a t-shirt.” He shrugs and shakes his head. “Friggin’ Alaska. Some shit I wasn’t going to miss.” Dean has no qualms about talking with his mouth full and Castiel watches with amusement as he shovels the last of his eggs in before he’s even done speaking. Dean notices him staring and tries to swallow around his giant mouthful. “Sorry,” he mumbles guiltily, mouth still ironically full.

Castiel shrugs and sips coffee from a mug that Dean rescued from the beverage cart he’d used as a battering ram, absently comparing the mug’s improbable survival against his own. He smirks a little as he replies, “It doesn't bother me. I’m sure that I have plenty of habits that aren’t technically socially acceptable. And you’ve been shockingly non-judgmental of my idiosyncrasies thus far, I figure I owe it to you to return the favor.”

Dean smiles and elbows Castiel in the ribs. “You’re weird as fuck, Cas, do you know that? I dig it.”

Castiel laughs into his coffee, murmuring a quiet, “I’m glad,” before turning his attention to the sky and sobering the mood. “Why hasn’t someone come for us, Dean? Surely that plane had a flight plan it must have deviated from? Surely the pilots radioed their distress before we went down? And aren’t there emergency signaling devices these days, something that puts out or would at least allow someone looking to track our location? None of this makes sense.”

Dean sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Yea, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that. As far as why no one’s come, I can’t answer that, and I don’t know near enough about planes to try and figure out what went wrong or locate the emergency location transmitter and see if it’s working. I might know what one is, but I couldn’t pick it out of a lineup. Anyway, while you were out I busted into the cockpit to see if the radio was still up and it wasn’t. The entire control panel is a brick. And yea, you’re right, someone definitely should have noticed _something,_ and the ELT should be transmitting, but it’s possible it broke or that the signal isn’t strong enough, I have no idea. Bottom line is, someone should have been here by now. Or at least, in the neighborhood. A search plane, a rescue helicopter, the National Guard, something.” He hesitates. “I could be wrong, though,” he adds, sounding not at all like he believes it.

Castiel feels a chill run down his spine, and it’s got nothing to do with the weather. He puts down his cup, suddenly not hungry as his stomach knots up with anxiety. He does his best to steady his voice before speaking- Dean is still so calm and collected, thinking things through and caring for them- the least Castiel can do is not add to his burden by breaking down in some kind of panic attack. He speaks slowly and deliberately, hoping that’ll mask any shakiness in his tone, “You’ve already decided that no one is coming,” he says.

Dean’s eyes scan the horizon and he doesn’t make eye contact when he nods. “I think we need to consider a Plan B, if you’re open to it.”

“Plan A was waiting here for rescue, correct?” Castiel clarifies, and Dean nods again. “What would a theoretical Plan B look like?”

Dean hesitates. “Hang on a sec,” he says, pushing himself up off of the tarp and locating his half-ruined duffle bag where it’s shoved up against the side of the tent. “Fuck yes,” Castiel hears him mutter a few minutes later as he pulls something from its depths. He returns to the tarp and plops back down, this time facing Castiel but with some extra room in between them. In his hands is a leather-bound journal, well-worn and faded, but stuffed to the brim with all sorts of papers. “This was my dad’s,” he explains, flipping the snap open and rifling through in a way that betrays his familiarity. This is something obviously valuable to Dean, and Castiel’s curiosity is piqued- not only for how it might help them out of this mess but for the opportunity to catch another glimpse of who Dean really is.

Dean pulls a laminated piece of paper that’s folded several times over and is still slightly wider than the journal itself. The laminate is old and soft, unresistant to the multiple folds and probably not providing much protection anymore. As Dean opens it up and lays it down between them Castiel realizes it’s a map of Alaska- and it’s bigger than it looked folded. “Alright,” Dean says. He reaches over the edge of the tarp and grabs a couple of pebbles from the ground. He places one of the pebbles slightly east of where Castiel would estimate the center of the state. “This is Fairbanks, where we took off.” He uses his finger to trace a path south, south-west. “This is the way we _should_ have flown, but if we had, we should have been able to see the ocean from the air.” He brings his finger back to Fairbanks and starts tracing it in an east, slightly north-east direction. “It was harder to tell from the air, but based on the landmarks I could see, the time, and the sun, this is the direction I think we actually went.” He places a pebble down and continues to trace along that line. “And based on the scenery, the mountains, and - don’t look at me like I’m crazy- the vibes of this place, _this_ is where I think we crashed.” He drops another pebble into a green-outlined area labeled, _‘Yukon-Charley Rivers National Recreation Area,’_ and clears his throat. “My dad used to bring me and Sammy up here to camp and boat and stuff. Sometimes Bobby came too. If I’m right, we’re quite a bit further south than where we used to come, but we’re at least in the neighborhood. Suppose it’s probably a good thing we crashed when we did - any further and we might’ve ended up in Canada.”

Castiel studies the map carefully, but so far he fails to see the upside of this news, or how it might help them. They still don’t know exactly where they are, and Dean’s educated guess is still just that, a guess. There are no ranger station marked on the map, no highways, hotels, nothing that could be of use to them. According to the map, even if they _are_ where Dean thinks, it’s still just miles of wilderness, mountains, and rivers in every direction. Castiel wants to trust Dean, but it’s hard to imagine how venturing out into the unknown could possibly be safer and more likely to yield them rescue than staying near the plane that might or might not be capable of transmitting their location. At this point, attempting to build a battery from some sticks and dry brush to power the destroyed radio seems smarter than wandering out into a National Park that has to be several thousand square miles of pure, unfiltered _wild_.

Dean must sense his thoughts as he rushes to pull something else from his pocket. “Shit,” he says, his face flushing. “I realize now that I probably should have led with this.” In his hand is a portable GPS device. “Call me paranoid, but I always carry one of these babies with me. Hey, guess what? When I was twelve, I built one of these things out of an old walkman. It was the size of an engine block and could only tell you where you were, but I was pretty proud of it.” He taps the device in his hand, looking lost in thought, and Castiel has to smile at the image of a twelve-year-old Dean methodically dismantling a walkman, the same little crinkle in his brow as he focuses on his work. “Dad didn’t think too much of it, though,” he scoffs, and Castiel doesn’t at all like the way his tone turns self-loathing. “Anyway, it’s nothing special, but it can tell us where we are, and help us get to where we need to go. It _could_ help someone find us, but... it’s a closed system. I can’t set it up from here to contact anyone not already looped in, so someone would have to know to look, if that makes sense. Sam and Bobby both have the login, but who knows if Bobby even realizes I’m missing and Sam… Sammy didn’t know I was coming. But you know, there’s always a chance, I guess.” 

Castiel makes a mental note to come back to that revelation later, but for now, he focuses on what Dean is saying about their situation. “So you can tell for sure where we are?! Dean, that’s great, that changes everything.”

“Yup,” Dean nods, waiting for the satellite to load. After a few cross-checks, he moves the pebble marking their location slightly north. “Here,” he says, relief palpable in his voice. “We’re here. And up here,” he drops the last pebble about an inch from the northern border of the Park, “Is the Yukon River and Coal Creek, an old gold-mine. That’s where me, Dad, Sammy, and Bobby used to go. There are these cabins up there, like at least four of them, that anyone can use. Public use cabins, I think they’re called. They’re right alongside the river and barring us running into anyone or someone coming looking, they’re our best bet for reliable shelter and supplies. There’s even beds and shit. I bet we wouldn’t wait there a week before running into someone either hiking, hunting or using the river. I think it’s our best shot. And since we have the exact coordinates, it’s something concrete we can head toward. Otherwise, we’re kinda shooting blind, and that’s a great way to get dead out here.” Dean fidgets with the GPS, powering it off and pocketing it again.

Castiel studies the map, the two pebbles taking on a whole new meaning now that he knows they represent his reality. He’s still not thrilled about leaving the plane, but Dean seems to think this is the best bet for rescue. “Tell me something, Dean,” Castiel starts, “What makes this plan better than waiting out a rescue here? I mean, surely, _eventually,_ someone will come looking for this plane, emergency signal or no. The distance between where we are and the river- this looks to be at least thirty miles, maybe more.”

Dean looks over the map from his upside-down vantage point across from Castiel. He’s chewing the nail of his thumb as he replies, “Yea, and it’s a rough thirty miles. We may not be able to go straight the entire time, depends on the terrain. Like I said, I didn’t really come this far south as a kid so I’m sorta winging this part.” His brow is furrowed, his expression is closed off, and Castiel can’t help but think there’s something Dean isn’t telling him.

“Dean, if we are going to survive out here, we’re going to need to trust each other. I know that I’m not as experienced or wilderness-savvy as you are, but I do deserve to have access to the same information you have,” he says, his tone gentle but firm. “Perhaps you aren’t interested in my opinion, but I intend to give it regardless since my life is on the line just as much as yours. And I’d like to do so fully informed, so I would appreciate it if you’d tell me whatever it is you think I can’t handle.”

Dean looks shocked, and then regretful. “Cas,” he says. “Of course I want your opinion. I just… honestly, I didn’t want to scare you. It’s not that I think you’re incapable or weak or whatever. Shit, no way in hell I’d be as much of a man as you were about cleaning that burn. I would have been bawling into my pillow and begging for whiskey halfway through, but you barely blinked.” Castiel’s a bit skeptical of Dean’s generous assessment, but he lets him continue. “The thing is, we can stay here, yea. And maybe we get lucky and someone does eventually come for us, but what if they don’t? Something went wrong on that plane, Cas. I don’t pretend to know what, but we’d be really stupid not to consider that whatever got us stuck here might also be preventing people from finding us. Our food supply is going to run out. The only gun I have is an old Colt pistol, hardly hunting material, not that I’ve even seen a game animal the entire time we’ve been out here. There's no water here, either. Lighter fluid is limited to what I’ve got in my zippo, and the GPS… Cas, it’s only got a sixteen-hour battery. Which is going to drain slowly whether it’s on or off. Plus, like I said about the weather, it’s only going to get colder out here. It’s September today, right? That’s when the snow starts falling reliably. And plus dude, there’s your arm to think about. If that thing gets infected… Listen, I know that I’m asking you to take a lot on faith, to put your life in the hands of a dude you barely know, but I promise I’m not being reckless about this. If we hang out here and no one shows up for a week, what kind of supplies are we going to have left to get us through a hardcore hike? You follow me?”

Castiel does follow, and the implications are like cold water poured over his head. If they try and hike out of here, they could miss any rescue that eventually locates the plane and end up dying in the wilderness from any number of things. If they stay, they’ll burn through their resources and might end up having to hike out anyway, except hungry and colder and possibly sick. Dean’s right, there’s really no choice to be made here.

Dean folds up the map and tucks it back inside his father’s journal, sidling up close to Castiel when he’s done. He cautiously wraps an arm around Castiel’s shoulders, and Castiel leans into him like second nature, tucking his head into the crook of Dean’s neck. “We’ll stay here one more night,” Dean murmurs, pressing his lips and then cheek gently to Castiel’s hair. “Alright? That’s probably smart anyway since they definitely know the flight’s gone missing by now. If they don’t show up by morning, smart money says they don’t know where to look. What do you think?” Castiel draws back enough to look up and meet Dean’s eyes. He’s still beautiful, even when he’s casually discussing their potentially impending deaths, and Castiel is smitten.

“Yes,” he says, finally. “That seems logical.”

“Cool,” Dean replies, eyes still locked on his. Like magnets, they drift together, their lips brushing softly. Comfort, and something more. When Dean pulls back, Castiel automatically chases after him before he realizes that’s what he’s doing. He settles back into the crook of Dean’s neck as Dean clears his throat. “So, plan for the day. Check your burn, root for anything else useful on the plane, take inventory and decide what we’re bringing with, build a sled and modify our backpacks, eat some more delicious freeze-dried protein. We’ll do a full dressing change before bed. Anything to add?”

Castiel looks up into Dean’s eyes again. “I’d like to do some more of this if you’re amenable,” he says, with a little smirk, leaning up and capturing Dean’s lips again with his own. This time, Dean sighs into it, wrapping Castiel up in his arms and licking into his mouth with enthusiasm. Castiel gives it right back, reaching up to thread his fingers into Dean’s soft hair, holding his head in place to kiss him thoroughly.

“Amenable,” Dean laughs suddenly, right into Castiel’s mouth, causing Castiel to pull back with a smile. “You’re something else, sweetheart.” They’re both smiling as they come back together again.

***

That night, when the day has come and gone and no rescue has arrived, Castiel and Dean lay tucked together inside the double sleeping bag, physically exhausted and yet wide awake. For Castiel, the gravity of their situation has been slowly settling into his awareness all day long. Sinking into his bones, heavier and heavier like a tower of stones still being built, crushing the pedestal beneath them that was once strong on its own. He’s scared. But Dean is warm and comforting, and easy to get lost in. He turns towards the other man and slots a leg between his thighs. Dean is quiet, allowing himself to be pulled and his limbs to be rearranged, seemingly content to be octupsed together with Castiel, laying there and looking back at him in a way that’s somehow already familiar and reassuring.

“We’ll be alright,” he whispers, attempting to tuck a too-short strand of hair behind Castiel’s ear. Castiel nods, not trusting himself to speak, not wanting to be vulnerable right now and yet, without saying a single word he still feels laid bare beneath Dean’s gaze. Because Dean sees him, is _changing_ him, and they’ve only known each other for two days.

Two days.

And somehow everything has changed.

It’s hard to imagine what might still be in store for them if this is what a measly two short days can bring.

In the back of his mind Castiel can't help but wonder, is venturing into the unspoiled, dangerous terrain of the Yukon-Charley Preserve the precipice he feels like he's standing on the edge of?  Or is it something much simpler and a hundred times more terrifying than that? Castiel may not be seasoned in love and lust, but he does know that he's one short step away from falling and not being able to claw his way back. He supposes life is ironic like that sometimes, and perhaps he's better off not examining these thoughts too closely.  Instead, he holds tight to Dean and does his best to enjoy the closeness and to force his body to sleep. Who knows what will happen between now and the next time he and Dean are together like this? That thought makes him hold on just a little bit tighter and if he's not mistaken, he feels Dean doing the same. _Hold on. Just hold on._

***


	4. Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel and Dean put their rescue Plan B in motion, and head off into the wilderness. Castiel starts showing signs of the burn taking its toll.

Dean is up with the sun the next morning. Castiel has his doubts about whether Dean actually slept at all, but he keeps them to himself. Right now, he’s supposed to be sorting clothing to be rolled and packed into their hiking knapsacks while Dean tears down their makeshift home. Fortunately (yet again), a high-quality hiking pack was amongst the items Castiel had purchased for his trip. Thankfully, Dean had been able to recover it from the plane. Unfortunately, however, Dean says he has as much “useless crap” stuffed in there as he does essential gear. So it’s all been dumped out onto one of the tarps alongside a pile of Dean’s own salvaged belongings to be prioritized and re-packed. Dean’s carry-on was also a sturdy knapsack that could be modified into a hiking pack, and it too had survived the crash. He hadn’t hesitated to empty it out, encouraging Castiel to put aside anything of Dean’s that didn’t seem useful. “I’ll look through it when you’re done but we gotta walk that line, Cas,” Dean had explained. “Truthfully, we’ve got more shit here than I could have hoped for. And that’s great. But if we try to cart it all with, we’ll end up moving slow as shit. Pulling a sled ain’t gonna be a picnic without snow, but I’m thinkin’ once we get across this valley maybe we can head up into the mountains a bit, the walking tends to be easier up there. It’s a tradeoff though,” Dean had added, scrubbing over the sides of his mouth contemplatively. “Weather’s harsher up there too. The weather being how you get snow and all, that’s probably… obvious,” he had cleared his throat a bit sheepishly. “Anyway, nights’ll be colder and we’re more likely to hit snow and rain, but directional visibility will be better and like I said, the walking.” He looked sideways at Castiel then, waiting to see if he had an opinion, easily letting him off the hook when Castiel remained silent. “Don’t gotta decide right now, sunshine. Let’s get packed up and on our way and then talk some more. We’ll make it up as we go if we have to.” 

Dean had flashed Castiel a big, toothy, eye-crinkling grin that Castiel was quickly becoming extremely weak for as he headed off to pack up their bedrolls and the tent. He’d sauntered off with instructions for Castiel to “just holler” if he wasn’t sure what to do with a particular item. Since then, despite doing his level best to concentrate on his own task, Castiel found his eyes (and attention) wandering relentlessly back to Dean, who was distractingly bent over and completely immersed in his work. Once again, Castiel found himself marveling at the strength of his attraction to the other man. Yesterday, Dean had emerged from the giant hole in the side of the burned out husk of the cargo hold brandishing two pairs of skis and two sets of poles above his head like they were spoils of war. He’d bounded across the grass towards Castiel, yelping in excitement and grinning like a maniac. As Castiel had soon been educated, skis make excellent bones with which to fashion an emergency sled. Dean was so beyond thrilled that he wouldn’t have to try and haul a piece of beat-up aluminum siding haphazardly tied to some rope the entire way that he’d temporarily abandoned his project in favor of pulling Castiel down into his lap and kissing his mouth red and swollen.

And this time, Castiel had zero intention of slowing down or stopping the proceedings. He was quickly learning how to lean into the overwhelming sensations, to ride the waves of emotion and tingling want instead of letting them overpower him. He found that maintaining a bit of control in their activities helped with this immensely; if he was engaged in doing something to make  _ Dean  _ feel good, that seemed to be the missing piece, the perspective that allowed him to stay afloat in a roiling ocean of lust. Straddling Dean’s waist, having Dean below him, open and vulnerable, unafraid and stunningly beautiful in his submission, Castiel felt empowered. He had a sense that Dean had orchestrated this, at least as far as their positioning, in an attempt to provoke that exact response- and Castiel was grateful. Especially since from what he’d pieced together about him, Dean was so clearly a normally very closed-off man, intent on projecting a hardened vibe to the world. But having him like this, knowing he was making himself soft and safe for no other reason than Castiel needed it,  _ this  _ was the real Dean. Considerate, emotional, generous. Fiercely protective of those he let inside his shell. All of these things only made Castiel want him more. 

But it was Dean who pulled back this time. Dazed and hard in his pants, Castiel had, embarrassingly, made an actual whining noise when the heat of Dean’s body and the sweet taste of his lips had disappeared, replaced with empty, cool air and disappointment. Dean had laughed softly at Castiel’s complaining, gently reminding him that they really should be working while they still had good light. “ _ Still?  _ We’ll have light until midnight at this time of year,” Castiel had grumbled in response, moping openly in a way that he knew was quite petulant. “More kissing,” he’d demanded, and Dean had rewarded him with several more soft, lingering pecks. That attempt  _ might  _ have actually worked in dragging Dean back in, if Castiel hadn’t dropped his forehead down to rest against Dean’s, prompting Dean to pull back again with a frown, quickly replacing his head with the back of his hand.

“You’re warm,” he’d scowled, almost accusingly.

Castiel had squinted and tilted his head to the left. “Is that a flirtation?” His eyebrow raised, he attempted to dodge Dean’s hand and recapture his lips, but Dean was having none of it.

“Cas, this is serious,” he’d insisted, taking Castiel’s good wrist and pinning it across his abdomen to hold him in place. “If this is the beginnings of a fever, we’re going to be in really bad shape. Alright listen, this is what we’re gonna do -  _ no _ arguments,” he added firmly, shifting himself up and dragging Castiel to standing with him. Sick or not, Dean manhandling him around like that was still terribly distracting, and Castiel was no less aroused than he’d been two minutes ago when Dean was blessedly unaware of his supposed fever. He felt fine.   
  
“I feel fine, Dean,” he sighed.

“I don’t care,” Dean said, dragging him towards the tent and grabbing a bottle of water on the way. He’d helped Castiel get his boots off and ushered him inside, sitting him down on the sleeping bags while he rifled through the first aid kit. He pulled out a packet, ripped it, and dumped the powder into the water bottle before recapping and shaking it. “Electrolytes,” he explained. “Vitamins and shit. Good for healing. Your body needs all the help it can get right now.” He pushed the bottle into Castiel’s hands alongside two small, white pills. “Tylenol. Take them, and drink. The whole thing, and then take a nap. Maybe if we get you rested and hydrated we can ward this off.” Castiel had wanted to argue, wanted to help, to be useful, but the look on Dean’s face had stopped him from pushing the matter. It was clear that Dean had decided this was a priority, and Castiel was quickly learning that there were some missions from which Dean simply could not be talked down. Caring for Castiel (even potentially excessively) seemed to have been added to that list, and so Castiel complied. Dean checked his burn before he left Castiel to rest, and though his face still looked concerned he grudgingly admitted that his arm looked alright. He kissed Castiel softly and poked him in the sternum before exiting the tent, warning him that he “better damn well sleep.”

So he did. And when he’d emerged several hours later, bleary-eyed and squinting against the late-afternoon sun, Dean had pronounced him fever-free and fit to help. Castiel had gone on to inventory their food and water, packing the food in one of the knapsacks and setting the water aside to go on the sled. Speaking of the sled, Castiel had to admit it was quite ingenious. None of the skies had emerged perfectly from the crash; three were slightly melted and one was snapped in half, but Dean had managed to lash them together to create a makeshift sleigh. He’d used the skis as runners, obviously, the broken one connecting all three at the front and back. One set of ski poles had been crossed and lashed across the runners, using rigging from the cargo hold to provide more of a base and to add stability, and the remaining set of poles was tied one to each outer ski to create handles with which to pull. Dean had made sure to add some extra rigging that could be used as an alternate way to pull by wrapping it around someone’s waist, though he also said that method would only be used as a last resort.

“This is very impressive, Dean,” Castiel had said, studying the finished product from several different angles.

Dean had just shrugged. “S’just a sled, Cas,” he’d replied, shoving his hands into his pockets.

Castiel had stepped over the sled to get up into his space then, staring him down and refusing to let him look away. “You don’t get to do that with me,” he’d said, gently but firmly, dropping his voice an octave. “Understand?” Dean’s eyes had widened slightly, his Adam’s apple bobbing enticingly as he swallowed. “Tell me,” Castiel pushed. “Tell me you’re proud of your work.”

“C’mon, Cas,” Dean had grumped, attempting to avert his eyes. “It’s no big deal.”

“It is to me,” Castiel replied, unwavering and now holding Dean’s chin firmly between his thumb and forefinger, tightening them when Dean attempted to scoot away.

He sighed. “M’proud,” he mumbled.

“What’s that?” Castiel inclined his head as if he hadn’t heard, the barest hint of a smirk gracing his face.

“I’m  _ proud!” _ Dean’s annoyed yell was louder than necessary, and Castiel couldn’t help but feel a twinge of satisfaction.

“As you should be,” he replied, releasing Dean’s face and stepping away, returning his attention to the sled. “Tell me about it?”

Dean had, and after he was done they’d spent the rest of the evening collecting items, giving the plane a last once-over for useful supplies, making and eating dinner, and going over the map and their route options. They never did get back to their more intimate activities from earlier, and by the time they’d fallen into bed they were both too nervous and tired to do anything but exchange a few soft presses of lips. And then Dean was all business in the morning, wanting to finish packing and get “on the road” as soon as possible, reminding Castiel that the sooner they reached the cabins, the sooner they’d be rescued.

But Castiel is only human, and he’s quickly learning that attraction can be a burdensome thing. While necessity and nerves may have temporarily tabled their sexual adventures, Castiel’s body has yet to get the memo. So now here he sits, or- crouches, really- perched between two knapsacks and working steadily through piles of clothing, doing his best to keep his eyes off of Dean.  _ Socks, keep. Swimsuit, toss. Underwear? Is underwear important or excessive? Maybe pile. Dean’s sweatpants, definitely keep. Dean’s sweatpants.  _ His traitorous eyes flicker up, watching Dean move. He’s especially taken with the bulge of his biceps, flexing and relaxing as he rolls their bedding up as tightly as he can with practiced ease. And then Dean’s kneeling, his body pushed slightly up and forward in a way that shows off the soft curve of his ass and  _ sweet Jesus, Castiel, when did you become an actual pubescent teenager?! _

Eyes down, back to the task at hand. He’s not an animal, he’s never been a slave to his baser instincts and he  _ certainly  _ is not going to start now by attempting to distract and seduce the only thing that stands between him and certain death from something unquestionably unpleasant. Castiel makes a mental note to call Balthazar (once he finally returns to somewhere with cell service) and apologize profusely for ever mocking his seemingly eternal need to follow his dick over his common sense. Rationally, Castiel knows there’s got to be a happy medium here, something between “Ken doll” and whatever Balthazar is, but nonetheless he’s gained a new appreciation for what the rest of the world must go through when they find someone attractive. It’s both the worst and best thing Castiel’s ever experienced.

As if on cue and because the universe clearly hates Castiel, Dean appears above him then, flushed and sweaty and gorgeous. He’s carrying the collapsed tent and both of their bedrolls on his shoulders and Castiel is  _ tested.  _ “Hey,” Dean says, eyes twinkling and smile wide, “Need a hand?”

“I’m afraid that if you sit down next to me right now Dean, we won’t end up getting anything done at all,” Castiel grumbles. Dean huffs a laugh and sits anyway, albeit across from Castiel, and smack in the middle of his haphazardly sorted piles. “You’re disrupting my system,” Castiel says with a glare. Dean looks surprised, glancing around as if to try and figure out what exactly he’s disrupting. Castiel sighs and drops his head to the ground. “I’m useless,” he mutters into the tarp. He sits up again, sharply and unexpectedly, making Dean start. “This is all your fault,” he says, with a pointed jab to Dean’s sternum and narrowed eyes. “You and your… extremely attractive body. I’ll have you know that I’ve never missed a quarterly goal in over fifteen years, never met a deadline I couldn’t best. And now here I am, unable to sort undergarments efficiently and it is _ all your fault _ .”

Dean looks stunned for a moment, and then his face bursts into the biggest grin Castiel’s seen on it yet. He lurches forward, bracing himself on his hands and leaning over the pile of clothing between them to kiss Castiel firmly on the mouth. He lingers, and the world seems to slow down and stop around them. Their mouths are the only point of contact between them right now, but that doesn’t do anything to quell the fire in Castiel’s veins. When Dean pulls away he’s still smiling, but it’s soft and kind. He pecks Castiel’s lips one last time before settling back onto his heels as he’d been before.

“Better?” Dean’s voice is full of amusement while Castiel blinks and shakes his head to clear it.

“Yes, actually,” he sniffs, still petulant.

“Then come on sunshine, let’s finish this up and hit the road.”

***

Within the hour, they’re ready. Dean has the heavier items- including all the water he could salvage from the plane, the tent, the sleeping rolls, an extra pair of boots (that were neither Dean nor Cas’ to start with, and Castiel knows for a fact they weren’t able to save any other bags from the cargo hold so he’s trying  _ very  _ hard not to think about where those boots came from), some rope and two other heavy tarps all stacked and folded and lashed to the makeshift sled with some ratchet tie downs from the cargo hold. Their bedding and a few other water-susceptible items were tucked inside one of the tarps before being strapped down, just in case. It had been Dean’s idea to leave a note behind, on the off chance someone found the plane before they were able to reach the cabins or, god forbid, something went wrong on their way. But it was Castiel’s idea to use the interior of the plane itself to do so. In the end, they’d used Dean’s hunting knife to carve into the exterior door of the cockpit, then painted a border and arrows with mud and watered-down debris-charcoal around the message so that it wouldn’t be missed.

_ 2 ALIVE _

_ 65.350536, -143.120003 _

The numbers were the coordinates of their intended destination, the roadhouse on the Yukon River that Dean had visited as a child. Castiel had lamented their inability to write a better message, but scrawling even that brief note into material that was clearly designed to be damage-resistant was already a feat, and the festering atmosphere inside the plane was really  _ not  _ one either of them had been interested in tolerating for long. Castiel eventually decided to just make up for the lack of detail in the note by plastering their ticket stubs with assigned seat numbers to the door with some mud. At least now anyone who found the plane would be able to match those numbers to the passenger manifest and locate their names. 

“You’d think at least one of these fuckers would have had a Sharpie tucked in their stupid geek pocket,” Dean had griped irritably, inclining his head at the bodies still mostly strapped into the jump seats. Castiel had almost reflexively scolded him for his insensitivity towards the dead, but a second look at Dean’s face had him recognizing the flashes of pain and guilt badly hidden behind the mask of irritation.  _ He blames himself,  _ Castiel realized.  _ He still thinks their deaths are on him.  _ Castiel knew by now that any attempt to reassure Dean of his bravery, his strength, to try and force him to reject the ridiculous notion that he was in _ any  _ way responsible for  _ any  _ of this would likely be met with derision and withdrawal. Instead, Castiel simply placed his hand on Dean’s arm and left it there until Dean felt confident enough to meet Castiel’s gaze. When he had, the green of Dean’s eyes had been betrayingly shiny and bright, but he’d remained stoic, a brief nod of acknowledgment and the barest relaxation of his muscles the only signs that Castiel’s message had been received, and perhaps even accepted.

***

Looking back towards the plane from the outskirts of their camp, a strange feeling sweeps over Castiel. It’s not that he’s sad to leave exactly, but this site will always hold a bizarre mash of mixed memories for him, and that, combined with the realization that it’s highly unlikely he’ll ever be back, is oddly heart wrenching. If-  _ when-  _ they make it home alive, this will always be the place where he and Dean decided to survive,  _ together.  _ If down the road he and Dean date, and are married and raise children, and those children, in turn, have children of their own, this literal wreckage will always follow them, always be a part of their history. This personal, painful ground zero will forever taint  _ and  _ set alight the memories of their first days together, somehow bitter and heartwarming and painful and beautiful all at once. Castiel’s breath catches in his throat a little as he tries to wrap his head around all of that, and he swallows thickly, stepping away from Dean’s curious gaze in the hopes that he won’t ask Castiel to recount his overly sentimental internal ramblings out loud. He doesn’t, and Castiel wonders if he’s just being polite or if he’s able to read Castiel’s face the same way Castiel had read his earlier inside the plane.

He’s also leaving behind some belongings, which is strangely difficult to do. Castiel’s never been a materialistic man, preferring clothes and furniture and items, in general, to be simple and functional, with no real interest in having  _ things  _ just for the sake of having them. His book collection has always been the major exception, a small chunk of which had been carted along to Alaska in Castiel’s checked bag. He’d pleaded, but Dean was beyond firm that they would not be subjecting themselves to the added burden of hauling multiple books across the tundra. “Cas, you’ve never hiked like this, you don’t get it. Everything we carry, everything we pull, makes this journey harder.” Castiel had nodded morosely in understanding, still clutching his favorite novels to his chest. Dean had taken pity on him, wrapping the books in fabric, then in a partially ruined tarp that they weren’t taking with, tucking them carefully into a sheltered spot inside the plane where the weather would hopefully be lenient on them. They were left alongside Castiel’s suitcase, which was full of the rest of Castiel’s superfluous belongings as well as Dean’s. Dean’s duffle was the most durable of their larger luggage and was currently holding all of the water as well as the tarped bedding from its place on the sled. With any luck, eventually, everything they were forced to leave behind would be recovered and returned to them. Someday.  _ And if not, it’s just paper,  _ Castiel reminded himself,  _ Not nearly as important as us. _

And so they set off, both of them properly strapped into their packs and laced into their boots, Dean using the ski-pole-handles to drag the sled behind them. As they move along silently, Castiel can’t help but notice that he’s not the only one looking back. He’s fairly sure Dean isn’t nervous about leaving the plane behind and heading out into the wilderness, so he’s left to conclude that his line of thought is something similar to Castiel’s. They don’t speak as the plane gets farther and farther away, but the air between them is thick with mutual understanding, hope, and grief. The mountains rise up around them, various shades of green still strong and vibrant in the early fall contrasted starkly against the pale blue sky above. The terrain in the valley they’re hiking is rocky, and difficult to navigate with the sled. Without any snow to ease the way, Dean’s often having to thread back and forth to follow any grassy trails, resulting in him walking almost twice the distance. Castiel’s not sure whether he should be more grateful that it hasn’t been cold enough to sustain snow and ice on the ground, or more concerned that the sled won’t be a viable option for long if they can’t find a sustainable way to pull it.

Several hours in the scenery and terrain is relatively unchanged, but the plane has become nothing more than a tiny speck in the distance.

“Break?” Dean’s voice snaps Castiel out of his own head, and he nods gratefully, unsnapping and shrugging off his pack before collapsing to the ground alongside it.

“I’ve always considered myself in shape,” he says conversationally. “I run several miles a day and try to work in weight training when I can, but it appears that I was not subscribing to the wilderness workout plan.” He stretches his legs out in front of him, enjoying the pull and release of his muscles flexing under his skin before relaxing into the soft grass. Dean plops down beside him.

“Looking pretty good to me there, Grizz,” he says with a wink, and Castiel rolls his eyes. Dean’s taken a liking to calling him variations on “Grizzly Adams” over the past few days, and Castiel’s almost afraid to ask why. In his own mind he’s decided that a secret fetish for mountain men as a closeted teenager is probably the best explanation, and Castiel’s more than happy to slide into that role if it means Dean will look at him like  _ that. _ “So,” Dean continues, “this sled is kind of a bitch to pull.”

“I’m happy to take a turn, Dean,” Castiel jumps to offer immediately, but Dean waves him off.

“Appreciate it, Cas, but if it comes to that then we’ll share - one pole each. I’m not having you stressing that busted-ass arm, and that’s not up for discussion. We’ll ditch the sled and take what we can carry on our backs before I let you do that.” He pauses. “Alright, that was a little dramatic, but I think we gotta go up.”

“Up?”

“Yea,” Dean affirms with a nod, pulling a hand over his thickening stubble. He pulls out the GPS and powers it on, consulting it quickly and taking note of landmarks around him before powering it off and pocketing it again. “There,” he says, pointing his finger towards what appears to be a gentle slope leading out of the valley, melting into the mountain ranges that stretch farther into the distance than Castiel’s eyes can see from their limited vantage point. “At the very least there should be less rocks. You remember what I said about the weather though, right? Might be colder up there, might even get some rain or snow tonight.”

Castiel bumps his shoulder softly against Dean’s. “Then we’ll just have to find a way to keep warm,” he replies, meeting Dean’s eyes and holding his gaze. He’d meant the quip to come off light and seductive, but there’s a depth and warmth there too, and judging by Dean expression, he isn’t blind to it. Castiel suddenly feels nervous and unsure, as if perhaps he shouldn’t assume that whatever is between them would automatically continue once they’d left the plane and their camp behind. It  _ was  _ a sort of strange bubble there, a frantic sort of desperation to both give and receive comfort and affirmation that they were indeed  _ alive,  _ and perhaps Dean would prefer to leave that mess of scattered and mismatched emotions behind. But then Dean is leaning in and brushing their lips together, soft and sweet and followed by a warm, affectionate press of lips to Castiel’s cheek, and something inside his chest loosens.  _ Dean still wants this.  _ It’s both an abject relief and terrifying as hell at the same time;  _ Dean still wants this.  _ “We should get moving,” he says, his eyes not leaving Dean’s, “You know, so that we can cover as much ground as possible. Definitely not so that we can get to whatever stopping point you have marked off sooner and work on that ‘keeping warm’ thing.”

The smile that lights up Dean’s face is blinding, and Castiel would follow him off of a cliff if that’s where Dean saw fit to lead.

***

At around noon they arrive at the base of the mountain. The slope is gentle enough, and Dean was definitely right about the terrain - it’s mostly soft grass, other underbrush, and dirt. Much better for sled pulling than the rocky valley. Castiel starts moving upwards when Dean stops him with a hand across his chest. “Cas man, check it out,” he says, nodding and pointing to their left at a river that’s winding its way through the gap between this mountain and the one next to it. It’s mostly hidden by trees, but once Dean points it out Castiel wonders how he missed it. Dean raises his eyebrows. “Dude, I don’t know about you, but I am not about to pass up a bath. It’s been days and I smell like Sammy’s armpit after curry and a ten mile run.”

“Lovely,” Castiel replies, scrunching up his nose.

“Oh, like you smell like a bouquet of roses right now,” Dean scoffs, shoving him gently. Castiel puts his hands in the air in a gesture of surrender. “We’ll leave the sled here, no sense in dragging it along. Medical stuff is in your pack, right? Towels? I’ve got soap,” Castiel nods and Dean threads an arm through his as they set off. “I still like you even though you stink,” he teases, making Castiel’s cheeks flush.

“Dean,” he says as they reach the river, dropping their packs and starting to strip down. “I realize that the ambient temp is quite favorable, but the water… it’s going to be extremely cold, isn’t it? This is the mountain runoff? Won’t we freeze?”

Dean nods. “In and out quick, buddy. This is definitely no sit and soak. Here, look,” he pulls the rolled towels from Castiel’s bag along with a washcloth and some soap and points to where several large, flat rocks border the river. “C’mon.” They relocate and set up on the rocks, one of the towels spread beneath them for comfort. The water comes up almost to the rock’s edge, so it’s no hardship to reach down and dip into the clear, fast-moving stream. Castiel’s right arm is still bandaged with limited mobility and persistently sore when he shifts it, so he does his best to use his left to wash up instead. It’s slow going since his right is his dominant hand, and the cold water dripping down and pooling in the crevices of his body quickly has him shivering. All the same, washing up feels  _ good.  _ Scrubbing the sweat and grime from the parts of his body he can easily reach is a kind of heaven in and of itself that Castiel hadn’t realized he needed, and if Dean’s low groans are any indication, he agrees. Castiel glances over to see Dean struggling to reach his back, his arms raised and scrubbing at the tops of his own shoulder blades, watery suds leaving wet, narrow trails across the wide expanse of his tanned, muscular back. Castiel reaches out and follows one of them with his finger, doubting that Dean’s subsequent shiver is related to the chill.

“May I,” he asks, touching the soap clutched in Dean’s hand by way of explanation. Dean glances at him over his shoulder and drops the soap into Castiel’s open hand without a word. Castiel gently lathers Dean’s back, washing carefully and thoroughly before removing the suds with the washcloth. He takes special care to swipe across Dean’s wine-glass dimples and the upper crack of his ass while Dean just sits there quietly, his hands folded in his lap. When Castiel is done, Dean turns towards him and takes the items back, squeezing the cloth clean in the river. He surprises Castiel then by leaning over and dunking the top of his head in, quickly rubbing over it with soap and then rinsing it off in the same fashion. Now clean, he grabs the dry towel and pats down quickly, leaving patches of his skin shiny-wet as he returns to Castiel’s side.

Dean settles across from him on the towel, close enough that the outsides of their right thighs are pressed together. He drifts the pads of his fingers lightly over Castiel’s bandaged arm. “I didn’t want to make it seem like I thought you weren’t capable,” he says quietly. “But, I’d really like it if you’d let me take care of you.” Dean’s eyes are wide but soft, his expression open and sincere, so Castiel only pauses for a moment before slowly nodding his assent. His chilly skin is already burning from the heady combination of the cold water dripping over it and being so close to Dean, being  _ fully naked with  _ Dean, something that, despite their several  _ encounters,  _ is a first. But as Dean carefully wets the washcloth and lathers it with soap, shuffling closer to Castiel to start soaping him gently, it’s clear that this activity isn’t a precursor to sex, at least not from Dean’s perspective. Dean works quickly and methodically, but he’s gentle and affectionate at the same time. The hand that’s not doing the cleaning comes up to hold various parts of Castiel’s body- his neck, his shoulder, his rib cage, his flank. Dean’s hand is big and warm and Castiel can’t help but lean into the touch wherever it moves. Dean doesn’t ask Castiel to dunk his head in the river, instead using a cup to scoop water, dampen his hair, and then rinse it. He scrapes his nails over Castiel’s scalp as he cleans, and Castiel’s eyes drift closed. When his hair is clean, Dean notices that Castiel is shivering and he immediately wraps the dry towel around his shoulders, working around it to finish washing.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says quietly, reaching under the towel and behind Castiel’s body to wipe suds from his back. “I should have done this right, should have gotten the camping stove out and heated up some water and really taken care of you.” Dean’s really close now, scant inches between their faces as he wraps his arms around Castiel, his body radiating warmth and begging Castiel to press closer, so he does. On instinct, he pulls Dean down into his lap and wraps him in as much of the towel as he can.

“It’s sixty plus degrees out, Dean. We’re hardly in danger of freezing. But if you’re concerned, I’ve heard that  _ this  _ is an excellent way to create warmth.” He smirks as Dean’s breathing picks up slightly, his chest rising and falling rapidly as it’s held flush against Castiel’s own. 

Dean wiggles his hand out from between them and points an accusing finger at Castiel’s nose, inadvertently making him go cross-eyed as he tries to follow the gesture. “You think it’s funny now,” Dean warns. “You won’t be laughing when you’re laid up with a raging fever twenty miles from any hope of rescue.”

“You worry too much,” Castiel says softly, kissing the tip of Dean’s chin. “About me. About everyone. What about you, Dean?” His eyes catch Dean’s and he finds himself searching their depths. “Who worries about you?” Dean rolls his eyes and scoffs at that, leading Castiel to bite back a smile. It has to be difficult to project the kind of practiced, toxic, hypermasculine front Dean prides himself on while straddling another man’s lap completely nude, but it’s clear this stubborn man intends to try. “I’d be honored to be the one to worry about you, Dean Winchester,” Castiel continues, slipping an arm around Dean’s waist and letting his thumb drag over Dean’s plush bottom lip. “Truly. You are not a burden, and you are so much more than whoever taught you to think so little of yourself.”

Dean’s pink now from the tips of his ears all the way down his chest, and as Castiel had suspected he would, he ignores Castiel’s words and abruptly changes the subject. Pushing up off of the rock and Castiel’s lap, he clears his throat and starts pulling his clothes back on. “We’re uh, we’re burning daylight here, Cas. Get dressed and then I’ll get your wound nice and clean before we head out again, alright?” Castiel nods, pushing down the feeling of disappointment that swells in his belly from Dean’s rejection.  _ It’s not a rejection,  _ another part of his brain insists.  _ It’s a wall. It’s self-preservation.  _ Castiel has to remind himself yet again that he and Dean have only known each other for less than a week, and that wounds as deep as this one obviously goes within Dean take time to heal.  _ You don’t even know if he wants to heal,  _ the voice in his head reminds him.  _ You don’t know him at all. _

_ But I want to,  _ Castiel thinks as he pulls on new underwear (not excessive, apparently), socks and a clean t-shirt.  _ I know more than enough to see that he’s righteous.  _ He stuffs his feet into his boots after tugging back on the jeans that were clean this morning.  _ I could love him.  _ He leaves his outer layers off for the time being since Dean’s going to tend to his burn.  _ And more than that, he’s kind. He’s deserving. _ By the time they’re dry and dressed and sat back on the flat rock with medical supplies laid out, the tender, sweet Dean from earlier has returned. He hasn’t said anything else, but his touch is soft and careful, his eyes flickering to Castiel’s face every few seconds to check for any signs of discomfort. Dean is so caring, so  _ good _ , and Castiel feels a surprising amount of rage cropping up inside him at the thought of anyone mistreating him, of anyone teaching him that he’s undeserving of the same warmth, care, and love.

_ You don’t think that you deserve me, but you’re wrong,  _ Castiel wants to say, but he doesn’t. It’s too soon, even if they are words Dean deserves to hear a million times over. Dean’s pink tongue presses against the back of his teeth in concentration as he carefully cleans and disinfects Castiel’s burn, but it’s Castiel who’s biting back words.  _ Someday,  _ he vows.  _ Someday, I’ll tell you. And someday you’ll believe me. _

***

Hours later, they’ve ascended the slope of the mountain, leaving the river and the unexpected intimacy of their bathing experience behind both literally and figuratively. Castiel had insisted (repeatedly, before finally getting his way) on helping Dean pull the sled up the mountain, and they’d fallen into a rhythm and matched pace surprisingly easily. The only issue was that Dean probably would have preferred to switch off the hand he was using to pull and that wasn’t an option for Castiel. Not that he’d said a word about it, the martyr.

Currently, they’re taking a break in celebration of reaching the plateau Dean had spotted from the valley, sitting side-by-side on a fallen log and doing a quick consult of the map and GPS in the context of their new and improved view. Castiel had to admit, Dean wasn’t only correct about the improved terrain, he was correct about their ability to plan a route better from up high as well. The sprawling vistas of the Preserve are truly an incredible sight to behold, and Castiel drinks it all in as he rests and sips some water. He’s glad for the break also as it’s an opportunity to layer up since the higher altitude is noticeably cooler. In fact, the wind has picked up quite a bit, and the sky is more exhaust-gray than the clear light blue of the early morning. Castiel suddenly finds himself thinking about Dean’s warning regarding increased precipitation up on the mountain, and wonders if he’s going to get a taste of it sooner rather than later.

Dean chews a pen absently as he coordinates their new route, squinting alternately at the map, then the GPS, then the mountains in front of them. “That way,” he points, not looking up from the map, “If we were up a little higher, we’d be able to see the Yukon River from here for sure. We’re making good progress. Should be in a real bed inside a real building in just a couple days, no muss no fuss.” 

“That will be wonderful,” Castiel agrees.

Dean turns his attention to Castiel. “You want to call it a day or keep going?”

“I’m alright to walk a little further if you think it’s best.”

Dean chews his cheek for a moment, gazing off towards the eastern horizon. “Weather’s coming,” he remarks, but he doesn’t sound worried. “This isn’t the greatest spot to stop, right here. No real natural shelter. Probably best to put a little more mileage on this baby,” he kicks the sled with the toe of his boot, “and look for something more secluded. We’ll just keep an eye on the sky and stop to camp if it starts looking like something to worry about. You okay with that?” 

Castiel nods and licks his lips. “On this one, I’m going to defer to you completely, Dean. I’ll admit, I am a bit anxious about the weather, but I trust you.”

Dean’s face snaps back to Castiel’s at that, his expression unreadable for a moment before it melts into an eye-twinkling smile. “Alright, sunshine,” he says with a wink, as he stands and extends his hand out to help Castiel up. “Stick with me.” Castiel can’t help but return the smile, taking Dean’s offered hand and allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. His foot catches as he stands, sending him tripping into Dean’s firm chest.

“Thank you, Dean,” he says quietly, looking up into Dean’s eyes. Once again, they’ve stumbled into this accidental closeness, and the natural intimacy that seems to take over immediately when they’re together like this is still disarming. Dean may be holding tight to his emotional walls, but in these moments Castiel can almost feel them rattling, shifting at their foundations, one good push away from cracking and crumbling to the ground, never to come between them again.  _ Patience,  _ he thinks, but it’s Dean who makes the next move, closing the distance between them swiftly and firmly by capturing Castiel’s bottom lip between his teeth. He releases it and presses their lips together again, and again, and again, letting his arms close around Castiel’s waist and sinking into him. Dean’s tongue licks into his mouth, wanting but not demanding, and Castiel is on fire again, like he wasn’t just sitting on a log and having a perfectly average conversation about the weather only moments prior.

When Dean pulls away, his eyes are so dark they’re almost black, his lips bright pink and swollen, his breathing fast and rough. “Right,” he says, his voice cracking a little. He swallows heavily, eyes still tracking Castiel’s every movement like he’s afraid to look away. “We should-”

“Yes,” Castiel agrees, his own voice lower than usual and quite husky.

This time as they hike, Castiel catches Dean stealing glances over at him frequently. Each time their eyes meet, his cheeks flush and he looks away. Castiel just smiles- it’s good to know that Dean is as affected by him as he is by Dean.

There’s hope for them yet.  _ Castiel  _ has hope. And hope, is not nothing.

As they continue on, the storm clouds gather at their backs, the wind begins to whip, and the temperature continues to drop. The combined noise and atmosphere of the escalating weather and their concern for finding somewhere safe to camp prevents them from noticing that in the far distance of the direction they came, a small plane is sweeping carefully back and forth over the valley. By the time Castiel turns around to check the sky again, the plane is gone. 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys I’m having an obnoxious problem with my account there preventing me from replying to comments. It literally appeared between clicking from one chapter to another to do so, idk wtf is going on. I did all the troubleshooting, cleared my cache, tried to comment anonymously, still can’t. No idea. So if I don’t reply to you, i’m not ignoring you or unappreciative, I literally can’t and am waiting for AO3 to help me out!! Thanks for understanding ❤️❤️


	5. For Keeps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel and Dean get snowed in. Dean's low self-esteem makes an appearance. Castiel's a caretaker, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who's left kudos and comments, they really keep me going and inspire me to get updates out faster. I hope y'all had amazing holidays and are starting the new year off on a happy and healthy foot. And if not, I hope this story at least brings you a nice escape from reality. Please drop a comment and let me know if you enjoyed the update!! :-* love you all.

Dean sighs and stretches luxuriously, his hands and arms popping out of their shared sleeping bag and instantly goose-pimpling where the sleeves of his thermal are pushed up almost to his elbows. “Brr,” he shivers, yanking his arms back in and pressing them to Cas’ cheeks with a laugh that’s dangerously close to a giggle. The glow of Castiel’s camping lantern lights the inside of the tent well enough for them to see the shadows of thickly falling snow accumulating quickly outside. The wind blows and pushes at the sides of the tent, but Dean’s handiwork is flawless - it hardly budges. Castiel snuggles down and burrows his face into Dean’s well-muscled chest, wishing he was pressing his skin against Dean’s skin instead of moisture-wicking thermal. Despite their hike, Dean’s mad rush to pitch and secure the tent as the storm came on, and their recent activities, he still smells clean and inviting, musky in the best sort of way. It’s a scent Castiel could easily get used to having around, to breathing in as he wakes up, safe and warm. Speaking of which, they _are_ safe and warm now, but it was a close thing.

***

_Earlier:_

Dean’s never struck Castiel as a particularly fussy man but apparently, he picks and chooses his moments. As the first snowflakes began to fall, the two men had still been walking along the mountain, Dean focused and searching for the perfect place to build camp, but not finding it. Castiel had kept quiet for a long time, letting the other man scour and reject site after site after site. 

“Too open, nowhere to tie off the rain fly.” 

Castiel had nodded. 

“Too close to the mountain side, those rocks could come down on top of us if the snow is heavy.” 

Castiel had nodded, and gladly left that one behind. 

“We’re _too_ secluded here, can’t see anything coming. Fucking polar bear could come around the corner, we wouldn’t have a clue.” 

Castiel had narrowed his eyes at that one, but reluctantly trudged behind Dean as he continued on. Finally, they’d come upon (and admittedly, the increasingly heavy snow and wind may have influenced his perspective) what Castiel could only imagine was the most perfect spot anyone could ask for. Small copse of close-but-not-too-closely grouped trees, steep sloping backdrop to cut some of the wind, high visibility (well, when conditions were clear, anyway) in three directions, and no fucking polar bears in sight. 

But Dean had hesitated, chewing his thumb and looking around as if he thought staring hard enough might materialize a Holiday Inn Express. Castiel had taken a deep breath and tried to count to ten. He was freezing; despite layering up, it had been warm when they’d started out this morning, and he’d had no reason to layer with thermals, even after their bath in the river. Even his hat and gloves were still buried at the bottom of his pack. But Castiel has always been a patient, even-tempered man. He knows that Dean is hardly frivolous and that he’s, if anything, overly concerned with Castiel’s well-being. He wouldn’t put them in danger… at least not intentionally. He _trusts_ Dean. But Dean's pushing it.

Because just then Dean had turned to him and said, “I don’t know, Cas. We could do better.”

And Castiel had snapped. 

“ _Dean,”_ he'd yelped. “What in God’s name are you doing? Would you have us freeze to death while you keep on your endless search for the perfect room with a view? I have news for you, IT’S ALL THE SAME VIEW, DEAN. Mountain, shrub, rock, tree, exhausted and starving boyfriend who is currently half-frozen waiting for you to _fucking pick a spot.”_ Castiel’s so angry, he doesn’t even register what he’s said until it’s far too late to even attempt a cover-up. Aside from that, he’s panting from the effort of yelling, slightly sweaty, and probably as red as a ripe tomato. It's not his greatest look.

Dean, for his part, looks shocked, his mouth gaping open as he lets Castiel rant. As soon as he’s done, Dean’s quick to respond. “Sorry, Cas. I’m sorry. I didn’t-” he looks around and shrugs helplessly, hands dropping to clap his thighs. “Cas, this is a fucking lot,” he yells, into the wind. “These storms are no joke, and it’s really fucking hard to think of every major thing that could go wrong.” He turns back to Castiel and walks up to him with intention while still leaving a respectful distance between them, likely because of the murderous look that’s undoubtedly still plastered over Castiel’s face. When he speaks again it's softer, pleading. “I just want to protect you, Cas,” he says quietly, a heavy note of frustration in his voice. He reaches out a hand and then drops it without touching back to his side, defeated. “Cas…” 

Castiel finds his residual anger melting away like the ice flows in June as he takes in Dean’s remorseful expression. He steps forward to close the gap between them and takes Dean’s proffered hand. “Then protect me. Protect _us._ This is a great find, Dean,” he encourages, gesturing towards the trees. “Come on, let’s get the tent up before we can’t see six inches in front of us, and then you are going to snuggle me and rub my back until I can feel my fingers again.”

Dean pauses from where he’s pulling Castiel by the hand towards the future site of their tent to chastisingly wiggle a finger at him. “That’s not funny,” he says pointedly. “I’ll unpack the tent if you grab both of our hats and gloves, yea?” Castiel nods and drops his pack onto the ground which is already coated in a layer of fluffy, white snow. He fishes through it until he finds what he’s looking for. His pulls on his own items and brings the other set to Dean, who’s spreading an extra tarp onto the ground to go under the tent. “Thanks,” Dean acknowledges, as he pulls on the gloves and hat. “Let’s get this done, alright? I’ll throw up the tent, then you can go on in and set up inside while I secure the rain fly.” 

Castiel nods and turns to start putting the tent poles together, but Dean’s voice brings him up short. “And then we’ll cuddle. Because we’re boyfriends,” he says, his tone full of amusement. Castiel turns around slowly, not sure whether to be more embarrassed or more worried. But Dean’s eyes are twinkling, and he’s just barely suppressing a smirk. 

“I owe you an apology, Dean,” Castiel begins, hunched over slightly and looking up at Dean sheepishly. He continues, “I never should have-” but he’s cut off by Dean’s lips on his, chaste but warm and firm. “Mmph,” is all he can get out.

“Stop,” Dean says softly, after pulling back just far enough for the tips of their noses to brush. His eyes are emerald in the dusky greyish light as they meet Castiel’s and hold his gaze. “You were- you _are_ right. Thank you for grounding me.”

Castiel stares back, almost forgetting how cold and hungry and tired he was just minutes prior. “You’re welcome,” he breathes.

Dean pecks his cheek and returns to hurriedly raising the tent, now a true race against the weather. The snow is coming down thickly, the wind is sharp and cold on their skin as it tries to rip the tent sides from Dean’s hands, and the reliable visibility is reduced to less than ten feet. All the same, Dean doesn’t sacrifice on workmanship. Once the poles are threaded, Castiel hops inside and spreads out on the chilly tent floor to hold it down while Dean secures the spikes. After all, the last thing they need is to be chasing their wind-whipped shelter down the hillside in this weather, or worse, losing it completely.

“All set,” Dean tells him, popping his snow-dusted head through the partially zipped flaps. “Comfy?”

Castiel side-eyes him as he pushes to his feet. “I’ve been better.” He brushes their lips together again as he exits the tent, getting a face full of snow as soon as he turns away from Dean. The visibility is down to only a foot or so, and he’s suddenly thankful he pulled their packs close to the tent before going inside. He drags them both inside now and lines them up end-to-end against one wall. He can feel through the fabric of the tent that Dean’s parked the sled on the other side, and so he braves the near-white-out conditions again to retrieve their bedrolls and the tarp full of non-waterproof items. He blinks against the stinging wetness hitting his face, sticking close to the tent with one hand on it to guide him. 

The rain fly only looks partially secured and he can’t see Dean, but that’s probably nothing to worry about- he can’t see the other side of the tent, either. He’s sure that Dean’s just as carefully navigating using the tent and the trees so as not to stray too far, but it’s still unnerving to not be able to lay eyes on him. Just as he’s thinking about calling out Dean’s name (not that he’d likely be heard over the wind), the rain fly tightens and stops flapping. Dean’s fine, and what’s more, now Castiel has a tiny bit of a shelter under which to secure the sled once he’s unloaded it. In the end, he has to make two trips (bedrolls, tarp-wrapped items, camping stove), but he gets it done. He’s just finished laying out their bed and is placing the lantern and camping stove in the corner when Dean stumbles in, teeth chattering and body shaking.

“T-turns out you w-were d-definitely right about the p-pressing need to p-pick a ssspot,” he stutters guiltily, shaking his head like a dog and sending sprays of wetness splattering across the tent. Castiel goes immediately to Dean's side, his eyes full of concern. He unzips Dean’s heavy coat and slips it from his shoulders, his brow furrowing as he feels the condition of Dean’s clothes underneath.

“Dean, you’re damp. This isn’t good at all,” he says. He’s worried, flashing back to the articles he’d read online before his trip about emergency wilderness medicine ( _just in case, it never hurts to be prepared, Castiel)_ and hypothermia and finds himself wishing he’d been a lot more thorough with his research.

“Y-yea, n-no sh-shit, C-Cas,” Dean replies, still trying to grin ruefully with his blue-tinged lips. Castiel snaps into action after that. He strips Dean and re-dresses him swiftly in thermal pajamas and clean, thick socks, replacing Dean’s wet hat with his own dry one. Dean’s not very helpful, his limbs are heavy and slow moving, and Castiel’s educated enough to know that these are not good signs, but all the same they aren’t the _worst_ signs, either. If he moves quickly and does everything right, he has a small window to turn this thing around. He ushers Dean into their shared sleeping bag, pulling the covers up and over his head, and this is where he’s torn. 

Does he get in and share warmth with Dean, or does he try to heat some water and warm him more actively? Dean’s shaking pretty hard but he still seems to have his mental faculties, and Castiel knows he only has moments to make a decision that won’t make things worse. Reluctantly, he leaves Dean and fires up the all-in-one canister stove that he’s only tried to operate once. He sends another thank you up to the opportunistic salesman who upsold him on this thing as well; he’s pretty sure the radiant burner is a lot safer inside of a tent than an open flame would have been, though he’s not sure about whether the stove will still create a carbon monoxide trap. To be on the safe side, he works next to the tent flaps, opening them slightly for ventilation. Probably better safe than suffocated, right? 

He moves as quickly as possible, grabbing four bottles of water and dumping the water out into the stove’s built-in pot. As soon as it heats (hot but not boiling, just slightly too warm to touch), he drops three of the empty bottles into socks and carefully pours the water back into the bottles. He secures the caps, folds over the socks, and ducks his head inside the sleeping bag with Dean. Dean seems surprised when Castiel tucks the makeshift hot water bottles under his armpits and between his thighs, up against his groin, but he smiles and his lips already look a bit more normally colored. “Thanks, s-sunshine,” he quips with a wink, his teeth still chattering. “Gonna c-come warm m-me up?”

Castiel nods but holds up a finger. “Hang on,” he replies, backing out of the sleeping back, the air cold on his face after being inside Dean’s little sanctuary. He checks the burner and ensures it’s completely off and away from any tent material. He pours the remaining hot water into a mug and adds a tea bag with quite a bit of sugar. Dean normally likes black coffee and scrunches his nose at tea, but Castiel’s vague recollection of the suggestions for treating mild hypothermia include hot liquid and simple sources of sugar, as long as the person can still swallow. He nixes the coffee because he remembers caffeine causes constriction of blood vessels, and one thing all the hypothermia articles were consistent on was that constriction means cold. 

His own fingers are shaking now, not from cold but from anxiety and fear. He takes a deep breath and strips down quickly, pulling on his own set of dry thermal long johns and sliding in next to Dean. He tucks Dean’s hat into the sleeping bag too, in the hopes that it’ll dry and he can wear it. They both curl down into the bag and Castiel props Dean’s head on his raised shoulder, offering him the mug. “Drink it all,” he says firmly. “No complaints.” He doesn’t have to tell Dean twice- the shivering man gratefully gulps down the mug’s entire contents and hums happily.

“Fuck, Cas, how much sugar did you put in this?” His pretty, clear eyes blink up at Castiel, his tongue darting out to lick at his lips. “Felt really good going down though.”

Castiel smiles warmly. He places Dean’s empty cup on the tent floor and buries them deep inside the bag, tucking the edges tightly under their heads. “I have no idea if I’m remembering correctly, but I’m fairly certain sugar can be helpful in reversing mild hypothermia.” 

Dean scoffs and raises his eyebrows. “Mild hy- Shit, Cas, it was just a little shivering.” 

Castiel stares at him for a moment, before sneaking his hand between them to pinch the tiny bit of fat at Dean’s middle. “OUCH,” Dean complains, jerking away and rubbing his belly. “Fine, fine. Novak- two, Winchester- zero,” he grumbles, burying his face into Castiel’s shoulder.

Castiel lets him, pressing his own body flush to Dean’s, wrapping arms around his waist and slotting a leg between his thighs. “You seem better now,” he says softly, dropping a kiss onto the top of Dean’s head. 

“Mmm,” Dean murmurs drowsily into the exposed skin at Castiel’s neck. “S’good.”

“We should eat. It’ll help you feel better and frankly, I’m starving.”

“Nnngh,” Dean grunts stubbornly, locking his legs around the one tucked between his own and grabbing the back of Castiel’s shirt to keep him close. His breath is hot on Castiel’s neck, and the little puffs of air are quickly reigniting the fire in his veins that inevitably flares each time he’s close to Dean. “Stay. Little while longer.” Dean pulls them over so that Castiel’s on top, his head pillowed on Dean’s chest.

Castiel lets out a token sigh of protest, but inside he’s glowing (and still quite hungry, but he puts that aside, because _Dean)_. A small part of him still resists believing that Dean could ever be genuinely interested him, that their connection is anything more than a simple confluence of circumstances mashed with necessity. As much as he wants it, and as clearly as Dean has shown that he _is_ interested _,_ Castiel just has never been the kind of man who’s _wanted_. But he feels something when he’s near Dean, and surprisingly, he doesn't mean lust. Beyond the flames of attraction and the ever-present, slow-simmering (and occasionally rapid boiling) want, there’s something… more. A desire to protect, to shelter, to _know_ Dean. Castiel’s got to get past these doubts, and he knows that. He’s got to stop second-guessing Dean’s affections based off of his own insecurities. No doubt his failure to do so would be the surest way to a self-fulfilling prophecy. 

He clears his throat and lets his fingers drift down Dean’s chest and abdomen. “Dean?”

“Hmm?”

“Tell me something about yourself?” Dean goes still and tense for a fraction of a moment before relaxing again, but the change doesn’t go unnoticed by Castiel. He continues soothing his fingers up and down Dean’s sides, hoping to put him at ease. “I just mean, I’d like to know more about you. If… if that’s something you’d want.”

It’s Dean’s turn to clear his throat, and while he hasn’t spoken yet Castiel can tell by his body language that he’s wide awake now. He shifts uncomfortably, the motion jostling Castiel’s head slightly. “S’not much to tell, Cas. M’boring. Barely graduated high school, never went to college, only time I’ve even been out of Alaska was to visit Sammy at school and I felt like George of the Jungle when the chick takes him home with her.”

Castiel picks at Dean’s shirt. “You could tell me about growing up with Sam. Or how you learned about camping and survival. Or about living in Alaska. Or what you like to do for fun. Dean, whether you believe me or not, I find you interesting. I find _you,_ interesting. And I would very much like to know you better.” Something about what he’s said seems to resonate with Dean, and his body seems to relax and settle somewhat. 

“Alright… well, living in Alaska can be alright. I mean, there’s fishing, hunting, snowmobiling, all sorts of good stuff. Lots of people think it’s just igloos and ice up here but, I mean, you’ve seen it, it’s not like that during the summer at least.” Castiel remains quiet, taking in everything Dean’s willing to tell him. “Me and Sammy had some good times when he was a kid,” Dean continues, his voice brightening at the very mention of his younger brother. He goes on to recount several memories of things the two brothers had gotten up to, including the time when Dean was eight and Sam was four and they’d dressed up as superheroes. Dean, dressed as Superman, had jumped off the roof of the woodshed behind their house, coaxing Sam into following suit. 

Unfortunately, while Dean landed safely, Sam had broken his arm. Dean had sat him on the handlebars of his bicycle and peddled several miles down a dirt road to bring Sam to the isolated town’s only clinic. Ultimately, he’d needed to be taken by ambulance to the hospital over an hour away, but Dean swears they both laugh about it now. His amused tone fades when he gets to the part of the story where his father, John, found out what happened, and though he doesn’t say the words outright, Castiel’s able to read between the lines.

He finds himself silently stewing and seeing red over the man who left his _eight-year-old son_ alone to care for his four-year-old brother, and then beaten him when they acted like exactly what they were-- kids. Dean’s oblivious to Castiel’s internal rage, and continues rambling on about Sam and camping with Bobby, John teaching him how to hunt and then Bobby taking him back out and teaching him the right way. His mother dying in a fire, his dad spiraling into alcoholism, his string of boring (but bendy) girlfriends, working at the canneries season after season to stockpile money for Sam’s education, “because Sam’s always deserved more than that dead-end town. Sam’s worth it. He’s better than that.” 

“And you don’t feel that the same goes for you?” Castiel finally breaks his silence, and Dean laughs a resigned, bitter noise in reply

“Damn, Cas, haven’t you been listening? This is _all_ I am. Rough-trade fish-cleaner with some low-grade mechanic skills. Good to have around if you’re stranded in the wilderness, which is maybe where you’ve gotten confused ‘bout what I’m worth, but let me clear it up for you, because when there’s no map to read or fire to start or sled to pull, you’re gonna be real fucking disappointed.” Dean pushes to his elbows, dislodging Castiel from his chest and looking down at him. He’s edgy, his fingers are flexing in the material of the sleeping bag, and he’s looking around like he wishes he could get up and storm away. For the first time since it started snowing, Castiel’s grateful for the weather, because it keeps Dean exactly where he is.

“I don’t believe that,” he says calmly. “And you should let me decide for myself whether you’re worth keeping."

Dean snorts. “If I do that, all’s gonna happen is you’ll kick me to the curb later rather than sooner. Trust me, Cas, M’doing you a favor here, and I’m doing me one too. I know how this goes.” Dean sits up at that and Castiel sits up with him, the tops of his shoulders instantly chilled where the sleeping bag slips off of them. He resists the urge to pull the fabric up and around Dean, guessing he wouldn’t appreciate being mother-henned right now. A million thoughts race through Castiel’s brain, from, _he can’t possibly think this little of me?_ To, _he can’t possibly think this little of himself?!_ He feels angry and hurt and saddened and more than a little concerned.

In the end, he pulls the sleeping bag tight around his own shoulders and says quietly, “I knew that there were many things I didn’t know about you, Dean. I knew that there was a chance I could learn something about you that I wouldn’t like, and that it would make me regret giving a piece of myself to you. After all, no one is perfect. But I also knew enough about you, that I felt safe trusting you with parts of me I’ve shared with literally no one else. You're kind, brave, and _smart._ So smart. You’re creative. You’re beautiful in ways I have a hard time believing even God could have envisioned. You’re generous and funny, sweet, intuitive, and humble. You made me _feel,_ Dean. I was cold before you, I was cold and empty, and… like a robot, almost. I’ve known you for mere days and you’ve already shown me that life doesn’t have to be so _plain_ and bland and _empty_. And for that, I only have one thing to say."

He pauses and then takes a deep breath. “ _Fuck_ you, Dean Winchester,” he spits, and Dean whirls around where he sits, his mouth dropping open. “You heard me,” Castiel affirms, his eyes narrowed and his tone harsh. “Fuck you and your self-centered, self-hate bullshit. I _trusted_ you. I opened up to you! I thought… I thought that we were building something. Do you think that I think highly of myself, Dean? I’m… I’m no one. I’ve wasted my entire life pushing papers and following orders and somewhere along the way, I forgot to figure out what _I_ wanted. For fuck’s sake, I came all the way to Alaska to do ONE exciting thing, to step outside _one_ box, and I couldn’t even do that. So if you think you’ve cornered the market on self-hate, you can just think again, because let me tell you, _I’ve_ got the fucking monopoly. I’m over thirty years old, Dean and I’ve got so little to show for it that the _best thing_ that’s happened to me in the last ten years was boarding a plane that crashed,that  _stranded me in the Alaskan wilderness_ with _you._ And do you know what else? I’d do it ALL the fuck again, if it meant I’d get _you,_ here, like this.”

Castiel pauses to take a few heaving breaths. He can hardly believe all of those words came out of his own mouth, but there’s no going back now, and _finally_ something feels right. Castiel’s _not_ going to be a passive bystander in his life anymore. After all these years of nothing, he’s not about to let the first _something_ he actually _wants_ sift through his fingers like sand. He grabs one of the water bottles that were previously warming Dean and takes a long drink, wiping his mouth on the back of his arm and then surprising both himself and Dean by climbing into Dean’s lap and grabbing the front of his shirt.

“I’m not letting you put this on me, Dean. I want you, and I want to know you. Your mind, your body, your soul, all of it. I know that I’m not an interesting man, that I don’t have much to offer you. But I think that, for whatever reason, you want me too. And if I’m wrong, if you truly aren’t interested, I want to hear it from _you._ I want you to look me in the eyes and tell me that you don’t want me.”

There’s complete silence for a moment, the sounds of their breathing and the whipping wind filling the tent as Dean stares up at him in disbelief. His eyes are wide and his lips are slightly parted, and a jolt of fear streaks through Castiel that he’s misread this entire situation and he’s about to endure the most embarrassing rejection of all time. He consoles himself with the knowledge that if that happens, he’ll likely end up freezing to death from sleeping alone in an Alaskan snowstorm before anyone can find out about his abject humiliation.  

 _Finally,_ Dean swallows and licks his lips wet and shiny. “Fuck, Cas,” he breathes. “That was so goddamn hot.” And then Dean’s lips are on his, rough and claiming, his tongue licking into Castiel’s mouth insistently, his hands coming up to bracket his head and grip his hair and Castiel is lost, so lost, moaning and letting Dean flip him over and-

“Wait, wait! Dean, no wait.” Castiel places both of his palms firmly on Dean’s chest and pushes him back, creating some space between them. Dean looks deliciously mussed, and Castiel has to blink a few times to remember why he was stopping. Oh, right. “Not until you promise me,” he says insistently, poking Dean’s sternum.

“Promise you what, sunshine?”

“Dean! You need to promise me that this is the _last_ time you’ll ever attempt to push me away like that. That you’ll respect me enough to believe me when I say that I would, and am, choosing you. That you’ll respect yourself enough to stop self-sabotaging _us.”_

Dean looks back at him guiltily. He looks like he’d rather be standing outside in his underwear right now than having this conversation, but to his credit, he simply nods. “Old habits die hard,” he mumbles. “But I’ll… you know, I’ll try.”

Castiel raises his eyebrows but accepts Dean’s words, strongly suspecting that Dean’s lukewarm reply is more than anyone else in his life has ever gotten (except perhaps, Sam). _Baby steps,_ Castiel thinks. _Baby steps._

He knows that they should probably talk some more, but having Dean hovering over him like this is quickly becoming too much, too tempting, and Castiel is tired of arguing and wasting precious time on anger and words. Granted, he doesn’t have much experience with intimate partner spats, but the whole thing seems exhausting. Though, the prospect of make-up sex is a concept that’s quickly gaining appeal. Dean shifts above him, seemingly unsure as to whether his advances are still welcome, patiently waiting for Castiel to make the next move. He’s  _almost_ considering dragging this out just to tease, but then Dean’s head dips down and his hips start to slide back as if he’s given up and resigned himself to Castiel saying no. Which is how Castiel ends up grabbing Dean’s hips and pulling him back down to press their bodies together.

He runs the pads of his fingers over Dean’s cheek and down his stubbled jaw as Dean makes an attempt to relaxes on top of him, his thighs bracketing Castiel’s own. Dean’s tone is careful and soft when he asks, “Is this alright?”

“Very much so,” Castiel replies, lifting his head to steal a kiss, allowing his lips to linger and recapture Dean’s, over and over. Dean seems to settle then, melting into Castiel in a way that feels almost desperate, his hands threading into Castiel’s hair and his thighs squeezing tightly around Castiel’s own. Castiel is reminded yet again of how deep Dean’s emotional wounds clearly go. Pushing Castiel away wasn’t some sort of mind game or manipulation for Dean, it’s very obvious that the man believes every word he’s said. He expects to be rejected, while at the same time his body language is clearly begging for reassurance. And Castiel can do that. He’s not experienced, his knowledge of the mechanics of any kind of sex is, at best, lacking- but he can certainly show Dean how much he wants and accepts him.

He wraps his hand around the back of Dean’s neck, letting his fingers grip the base of his skull and tilting it slightly so he can mouth at Dean’s jaw. His other hand slides up Dean’s skin under his shirt to splay possessively across the center of his back. Every gesture, every movement is intentional- meant to clearly spell out, _Mine,_ just in case Dean still has any doubt. He nips the shell of Dean’s ear before pulling back to meet Dean’s eyes.

“Do you want me, Dean?”

Dean’s breathing heavily, and it appears to be from nerves as much as lust, but he doesn’t hesitate to reply. “Yes,” he breathes, holding eye contact with Castiel for the first time since they’ve started talking tonight. “Want you so bad, Cas. I’m sorry that I-” he cuts himself off and shakes his head, dropping it down briefly to rest in the hollow of Castiel’s throat. He leaves a kiss there and then pushes back up to look him in the eyes again. He _is_ trying, and Castiel appreciates how difficult this must be for Dean and his apparent fear of words. “I want you,” he says firmly, and Castiel smiles before grabbing his head and kissing him fiercely.

“Show me,” he growls, pushing his hips up and into Dean’s. “Show me, Dean.”

This time, Dean doesn't wait for a second invitation. His hands are suddenly everywhere- sliding up under Castiel’s shirt, scratching trails down his back, brushing over his nipples, sliding under the hem of his pants and squeezing the firm globes of his ass. Castiel’s swept away, and it’s a beautiful ride. He does his best to keep up with Dean and despite his relative inexperience, he thinks he’s succeeding pretty well. That is if Dean’s breathy groans and sighs are any indication, and Castiel feels confident that if somehow they aren’t, the steadily increasing bulge in his pants probably is. And it feels good, _blissful,_ when Dean ruts up against him, when his mouth drops to Castiel’s neck and sucks wetly at his pulse point. When Dean’s hands finally get tired of wandering and find the waistband of his pants, pushing them down alongside his own and thrusting forward so they’re _finally,_ perfectly, skin-on-skin, and Castiel’s right there with him.

Their push-pull back and forth is hot and dirty and just a bit too dry, at the same time deliciously satisfying and yet nowhere near enough. That impossible paradox results in a parade of ideas relentlessly coursing through Castiel’s head of all the things he wants to do with Dean, making it spin. He wants to flip Dean over, push his head into the bedroll, knock his stupid hat off so that he can grip his hair and fuck him hard and fast from behind, pull him back into his lap, reach around and jerk him roughly until they’re both screaming. He wants Dean to take him apart painfully slowly, to kiss him wet and sweet, to slide down his body and lick him open, to push inside carefully and make love to him gentle and deep, their chests pressed together and their eyes locked, the only friction on Castiel’s cock when he comes the little he gets from the pressing slide of Dean’s stomach against his own. Castiel wants everything and has no idea how to ask for any of it. 

The sheer number of options ends up paralyzing him and so he does nothing, instead letting Dean take the reins and accepting whatever he sees fit to dole out. Castiel’s vision turns hazy, his fingers tingle, and there’s a slow-burning fire being stoked to bonfire flames in his belly. Castiel thinks Dean must have had the same thought about the dryness, because the warmth of his body disappears suddenly, moving down and pressing against Castiel’s legs as Dean shifts to the bottom of the sleeping bag. He wastes no time in grabbing the base of Castiel’s cock and swallowing him down almost to the root. On some level, Castiel suspects this is more about necessity and mechanics than pleasure, but that doesn’t stop it from being the single most sensual experience of his life. Castiel’s had mouths around his dick before, but that _was_ just mechanics- and this is Dean. Sweet, sensitive, broken Dean with his soft green eyes and his pretty smile. Dean who so badly wants to be loved but doesn’t think he deserves it. _Dean, Dean, Dean._ When the wet heat leaves and Dean’s warmth returns to blanket his body, Castiel’s gasping and there’s unspilled wetness in his eyes, both from holding back what would surely be an explosive, if premature orgasm, and from emotion.

When Dean fits their hips back together again and starts to move, the slide is slick and easy, and Castiel stops trying to hold back. Dean adds a spit-licked hand to the mix, and Castiel copies him, their tunneled fists moving in sync as Castiel thrusts. Pretty soon his rhythm is faltering, his free hand is thrown out to the side to clutch at whatever fabric it lands on and his back is arching off the ground. He comes hard and long all over Dean’s hand, shaking from head to toe as Dean rocks him through it. He lays there panting as Dean drops his spent cock but keeps hold of his hand, wrapping it around his still-hard cock and using his own hand to keep it there. When he’s satisfied, he picks up the pace, fucking into their joined fists and coming only a minute or so later, groaning and spilling onto Castiel’s stomach. A whole new mess of dirty thoughts flutter across Castiel’s brain, but he hardly has the strength to even focus on them properly, never mind act on them.

Thankfully, Dean’s as sweet and considerate after sex as he is during (and the rest of the time, for that matter), cleaning them up with one of the washcloths they used in the stream earlier. Castiel had meant to lay it out on top of the sled to dry as they walked, but he’d forgotten and left it in a side pocket of his bag. Naturally, it’s cold as hell but still damp, and apparently, that’s good enough for Dean. Castiel only tolerates a swipe or two across his stomach before he’s wiggling and batting Dean’s hand away. “Enough, enough,” he complains, tossing the half-frozen washcloth aside and pulling Dean back down into his arms. They snuggle like that for a while, both of them dozing in and out of consciousness, just enjoying the warmth and closeness and safety of the moment. And then Dean gets restless, poking at Castiel and putting his air-chilled arms on his face.

“Alright, Alright, I’m up,” Castiel grumbles. “I will make us dinner, on the condition that you stay inside the sleeping bag while I do so.” Dean reluctantly agrees but sits up with the bag wrapped around his shoulders so he can watch Castiel, who’s attempting to don every layer in his pack. “By the way - now that you’re not near-comatose from cold, I’ve been meaning to ask,” he points to the little radiant stove, “Is this safe to use inside the tent?”

Dean looks at him like he’s nuts for a second before schooling his expression. “Dude,” he says. “It’s a radiant stove. It’s made for high winds and crazy weather. Drop that sucker outside in the snow and then you won’t have to worry about it.” His expression softens when he sees Castiel’s guilty expression. “Don’t worry, buddy. It’s fine in an emergency, it’s just a hell of a risk to take on if you don’t have to - burning down our only tent and all.” Unsurprisingly, that does not make Castiel feel better. Dean sighs, “Come on sunshine, boil that water and get that tight ass the hell back in here.” The bit of Dean’s face he can see between the trim of his hat and the top of the sleeping bag is crinkled in amusement as Castiel rolls his eyes and unzips the tent to shove the stove outside. The snow is several inches deep already, but it seems to be lightening up. Castiel finds himself hoping that pattern continues because as nice as being tucked away in complete isolation with Dean sounds, the idea of four walls and an indoor toilet sounds a lot better.

Speaking of which - he calls back to Dean as he steps into his boots, “Dean, there’s an empty bottle next to the bed if you need to relieve yourself. You’re not going outside.” Before Dean can protest, Castiel disappears outside the tent and handles his own business.

“I’m dumping it out,” Dean insists peevishly when Castiel returns.

“No.”

“Cas!”

“No.”

“Why do you hate me? We just had our first real fight and you think we’re ready to jump to the ‘mutual waste disposal’ part of our relationship? Whatever happened to preserving some of the mystery?” Dean’s sulking and still hiding his bottle under the sleeping bag.

“Mystery is for couples who aren’t stranded in the Alaskan wilderness in winter,” Castiel replies mildly. “Bottle, please.” Reluctantly, Dean hands it over, face flushing the color of the red sauce in their dehydrated dinner bag. Castiel takes care of it and returns the bottle to an empty corner of the tent, just in case. He tosses Dean a small bottle of sanitizer and tells him to wash up. By the time he undresses and slides back in next to him, Dean’s no longer pouting, but he still looks embarrassed.

“You don’t have to baby me, you know,” he gripes, shoving a large spoonful of noodles and rehydrated beef into his mouth and chewing sullenly.

“I know that,” Castiel replies patiently.

“So stop,” Dean pushes.

Castiel pauses in lifting his own spoon to his mouth to focus fully on Dean. “No,” he says firmly. “I won’t. I _want_ to take care of you Dean, that is what partners do for each other. Obviously, that’s not something you’ve experienced before, and for that, I would very much like to have words with your previous significant others. You are not weak for accepting care and affection, and I fully intend to make you believe that if it kills me.”

Dean glares at him through narrowed eyes, but his tone is warm. “It might.”

Castiel nods. “So be it,” he says, taking a bite of dinner.

***

Later, after they’ve cleaned up, melted some snow for additional water, and each drunk their share, Dean checks Castiel’s wound and makes a worried face. “This looks… are you feeling alright?”

Castiel shrugs. “As good as can be,” he replies truthfully. “I don’t feel like I have a fever or the flu if that’s what you’re asking.” Dean hums and furrows his brow as he slathers antibacterial cream over the burn.

“Does it hurt?”

Again, Castiel shrugs. “Not as much as it used to.”

Instead of looking reassured, Dean’s concerned frown deepens. “I can’t remember if that’s a good or bad sign,” he mutters. He fusses with the cream and bandages for a few minutes more, then rechecks their supplies. “We’ve got to pick up the pace, Cas. We’ve probably got another good eight to ten-hour walk to the closest cabin - the one at the coal camp. Slaven’s is maybe five to eight more miles beyond that. I’d like to get there by tomorrow night if we can. Our gauze supply is getting a little low for my liking and we can’t afford for this thing to get dirty.” He looks up at Castiel finally, and Castiel can see the worry and fear in his eyes. “It’d kill me Cas,” he whispers, low and surprisingly full of emotion considering his earlier protests. “After all this, if anything-” he shakes his head and swallows. “We’ve just got to get moving, alright?”

***

A short time later they're back lying in each other’s arms, tucked securely inside the sleeping bags and listening to the light patter of snow and the whisper of wind outside. Dean’s head is tucked under Castiel’s chin, and Castiel’s fingers are tracing patterns on the skin of his back, his shirt rucked up to his shoulder blades.

“S’too bad it’s snowin’,” Dean slurs sleepily.

“Why’s that?”

“Northern lights,” Dean murmurs. “They’re amazing out here.” Castiel feels Dean’s face stretch into a smile against his skin. “Good for kissing under, too,” he adds.

Castiel pokes his flank, and Dean giggles. “I knew there was a hopeless romantic sap in there somewhere.”

Dean yawns and mumbles through it. “Maybe you jus’ bring out the best in me, Cas.” He nuzzles Castiel’s neck and sighs, his breathing quickly dropping off to something much more slow and even.

“The feeling is mutual, Dean,” Castiel whispers, even though he knows Dean doesn’t hear him. He falls asleep soon after, safe, and warm, and happy, in their little harbor in the storm. _That’s a bit of an on-point metaphor_ , Castiel thinks absently as he drifts off, but he can’t bring himself to regret the cheesy thought. He can’t regret anything about everything he’s done in his life that’s brought him to this moment, in fact. Now that he’s had Dean, he’s sure - he’ll do anything he can to keep him. _Please let me keep him,_ Castiel prays to a God that he hasn’t spoken to in decades, as he slips slowly from consciousness. _Please, please let me keep him._

_***_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come talk to me!  
> [My Twitter](https://twitter.com/caslostwings)  
> [My Tumblr](https://castielslostwings.tumblr.com/)


	6. Push

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel and Dean have an Encounter that leads to one of their most perilous moments yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this one is pretty exciting. Hope you guys enjoy. Please leave me a comment with what you thought!!

The snow stops completely overnight, and Castiel wakes up to a scene that looks straight out of National Geographic. The valley below them that stretches miles and miles all the way back to the plane wreck somewhere in the vast distance still looks verdant and alive. It almost gives the appearance of being time-locked where it’s set against the tops of the now snow-covered mountain range. The white blanket thins and disappears the further down the side of the mountain Castiel looks, but all around him up here is thick, pristine snow. A small part of him can’t help but feel like a little kid with the day off from school, his boots the first to crunch down enjoyably as he runs out to play. It’s almost festive, really.

Since the wind’s died down and the temperature’s come up into the low forties, Dean clears away a section of snow and builds a fire with wood he’d salvaged and tucked inside the tarp in the sled the night before. Castiel resists chastising him for collecting branches when he was well on his way to becoming a human popsicle, and instead works on packing up their things while Dean gets the fire going. Once they’re both done those tasks they switch, and Castiel prepares breakfast while Dean packs up the tent and secures everything to the sled. They eat sitting on the loaded sled like a bench, overlooking the snowy vista that’s now brightly reflecting the sun. It’s really quite a lovely moment, all things considered. Under different circumstances, Castiel thinks it would make a great memory. Hell, it still might.

Castiel’s draining the last of his tea when Dean grabs his arm in excitement, making him dribble a little. “Dean, what--”

“Shhh!” Dean cuts him off, gesturing madly towards another copse of trees maybe thirty yards away. “Look,” his hisses, and sure enough, there’s definitely something -  _ several  _ somethings- nosing their way carefully out of the brush surrounding the trees. Two adult-size and two miniature replicas of a sort-of familiar four-legged creature. They look like… fluffy white deer, except that they have antlers. What on earth?

Castiel scrunches up his face in confusion. “There are deer this far north?”

Dean nods. “Sure,” he replies quietly, still watching the little family nosing around for their own breakfast. “But those are reindeer.”

Castiel scoffs. “Don’t mock me, Dean. I may not be an actual mountain man, but I  _ do  _ know that reindeer are fictitious.” There’s silence for a long moment, so protracted that Castiel finally tears his eyes away from the strange deer to check on Dean. His companion is paused mid-chew and he’s staring at Castiel like he’s sprouted a second head. “What?”

“Uhm,” Dean swallows, and continues staring. “You… think reindeer are made up?”

Castiel squints and cocks his head to the side. “I genuinely can’t tell what kind of joke you’re going for here, Dean,” he says. “But rest-assured, you are not going to be able to trick me into believing that reindeer are not mythical creatures.”

Dean gapes. “Cas, they’re literally not.”

Castiel rolls his eyes, “Sure, Dean. And these four are, what? Out for a family stroll between practice runs pulling Santa’s sleigh? Oh, is that where we’re really headed? The North Pole? Perhaps we can ask Santa to use his phone and call for a ride. Or heck, maybe we can just skip the middleman and ride one of these fine fellows through the air back to FAI. Seems like they’ve got a better track record than Alaskan Airlines, anyway.”

Dean’s jaw is practically on the ground when Castiel looks back at him, but then it’s snapping shut and Dean is  _ howling.  _ He laughs so hard the deer spook and take off, disappearing back into the brush. Dean flops back on the sled, body shaking and face turning red as he alternately laughs and gasps for breath. After several minutes he finally slides down the side of the sled, flopping forward into a crouch on the ground and taking several deep breaths in an attempt to ground himself. “Cas,” Dean wheezes, and when he looks up Dean’s face is ruddy and covered in tear tracks. Castiel sighs, but like an idiot, waits for Dean to continue, since he thinks he’s finally about to be let in on the joke. But whatever it is Dean’s trying to cough out eventually evaporates in another fit of uncontrollable giggles.

Annoyed, Castiel pushes off the sled and stomps away, grabbing their cookware to clean off in the snow and repack. He’s just finishing up when a strong pair of arms wraps around him from behind, gripping his waist and turning him around. “Hi,” Dean says softly, eyes still crinkled and sparkling with mirth

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel replies, eyeing him warily. “Am I able to know what you find so funny yet, or do you wish for it to remain a private joke?”

Dean smiles and squeezes his hip. “Man, I”m sorry, Cas. I’ve been living in Alaska too long. I’ve never met anyone who hasn’t met a reindeer in person, so the idea that people out there don’t believe in them is pretty hilarious.”

Castiel narrows his eyes again, suspicious. “You’re telling me that reindeer are... actually real? There’s no way. There is  _ no way  _ I’ve lived three decades thinking these were invented magical creatures and they’re actually just… deer.”

Dean’s smile widens and threatens to explode into laughter again, but he reigns it in and nods. “Real as you and me, sunshine. Make pretty decent jerky, too.” Castiel must make a face at that, because Dean can’t help but let out a short, barking laugh.

He shakes his head, pulling away from Dean to shoulder his pack as Dean, still grinning, does the same. They set off over the snow, pulling the sled between them, one pole each.

“I’m still reeling over this,” Castiel finally admits as they pass the trees where the reindeer had been. “Unicorns are still make-believe, right?”

“Far as I know.”

“Werewolves? That seems like something we could potentially encounter out here.”

“Funny you should say that, there’s an Alaskan version of that myth. Lotta believers up this way. We got a variant on Nessie, too.”

“As in Nessie, the Loch Ness Monster?”

“Yup.” 

“Hmm. Narwhals, though. Those are definitely mythical.”

“You’re messing with me now, right?”

“Maybe. What about the dodo bird? Giant squid? Tyrannosaurus Rex. The Wombat! Flying squirrel? Plesiosaurus!”

Castiel’s laughing as Dean’s playful shove sends him sprawling down in the snow. He bounces back up and they chase each other across the hill, throwing snowballs and shrieking with laughter, hollering back and forth about the utter weirdness that is the animal kingdom.

***

This day’s walk seems easier than the last, despite the snow. It’s not actually that much more difficult to walk through the fluffy ground covering than over the tundra itself, and it’s a million times easier to pull the sled behind them. The skis glide over the snow and their cargo becomes practically weightless. Castiel and Dean even dump their packs on top for awhile and enjoy hiking without the extra burden.

Their conversation is easy today, too. Light and teasing, for the most part, dipping into emotional territory on occasion but mostly it’s just an opportunity for them to share and get to know each other better. 

Dean likes pie, especially apple. He listens only to classic rock, and his favorite song is a tie between “Ramble On” and “Traveling Riverside Blues.” He dreams of owning a muscle car someday, something big and black and made by Chevy, and he has no idea what he wants to be when he grows up, nor does he think it’s his place to dream. Aside from wilderness survival, he’s home-trained on pretty much every fireable weapon in existence, and several knives. His father’s hunting interests went beyond casual sport and extended towards Doomsday prepping and homestead defense. Dean knows all about those things, but they aren’t his own interests. If he had a choice, he’d be fishing, or driving endlessly down long country roads at night. He hopes to see a “WWE” style wrestling match live someday. He likes greasy diners and self-proclaimed “geeky” movies. He has almost zero interest in the “finer things,” though Castiel suspects that’s based on his deeply-seeded fear of inadequacy and inferiority. His favorite memory is of him and Sam at ages thirteen and nine doing the polar bear plunge the day the rivers broke up. He remembers Sam being freezing but smiling, and he talks about how  _ for once,  _ for that one moment, they’d both just been kids. Dean wishes he had more of those moments.

As for Castiel, he tells Dean that he likes gardening and bees. That he hopes to someday own his own home so that he can have both in his backyard. He likes all kinds of music, and doesn’t watch many movies. He admits he’s enjoyed a Netflix binge of a series or two, though, and has a soft spot for trashy reality TV. He loves both coffee and a good cup of tea sweetened with honey, and he eats a PB&J every single day for lunch. He reveals that his dad left when he was an infant, and his mother is still the overbearing, controlling narcissist she’s always been, but she’s family, and all Castiel has. He tells Dean about spending most of his free time as a child holed up in his room reading every book he could get his hands on, doing his best to avoid the bullying taunts of the kids in his neighborhood who didn’t understand his proclivities. He recounts his teenage exploits with Balthazar and Meg, and Dean laughs heartily at the part about their seduction attempts. Castiel also admits he has no idea what he wants to be when he grows up, but he’s learning that his current job and his current life, are not it.

“You know what I could really go for right now?” Castiel’s wistful as he recalls his favorite cafe, the one tucked into the lobby at Sandover, and probably the only good thing about the place at all.

“What’s that?”

“A bubble tea,” Castiel replies with a grin. “Taro flavor, with tapioca bubbles. Oh, god, I can almost taste it. Mmmm.”

“ _ Bubble  _ tea, Cas? Are you serious right now?” Dean looks incredulous.

“It’s an indulgence,” Castiel shrugs.

“Well I for one, am craving a fucking cheeseburger. Big, meaty, medium rare cheeseburger- juices running out and soaking the bun, extra cheese melting all over, crap ton of onions, ketchup and mustard on top. Oh,  _ yes, _ ” Dean moans, letting out a noise that’s positively pornographic. “I’d give my left nut for something like that right now.”

“As a fan of your left nut, I’d like to formally come out against that.”

“Wash it down with an ice cold beer or three, and a big ass slice of pie. Any pie. No, cherry. No, apple. Definitely apple.”

“That does sound incredible,” Castiel admits, and then gathers his courage to make their first post-survival plans. “First thing we do when we get back to civilization,” he says, “Do not pass go, do not collect $200, do not shower or sleep - we stop at the first greasy diner we come across and make your fantasy a reality.”

Dean stops dead in his tracks and drops his pole. He turns towards Castiel and clomps through the snow over to him, sliding his hand around Castiel’s neck to the back of his head and pulling him in for a hard, passionate kiss. It’s hungry and claiming, as if Dean’s attempting to satiate his hunger for food by devouring Castiel. Their tongues tangle deeply, their ravenous kisses open and wet and messy. It  _ does  _ feel like the make-out equivalent of that burger Dean described and Castiel, for his part, is more than satisfied when Dean eventually pulls away.

He looks up into Dean’s eyes. “What was that for?”

Dean’s hand slides forward to cup his jaw affectionately. “You’re perfect,” he says. “That’s all.” And he returns to his side of the sled, picking up his handle and carrying on like nothing had happened.

They walk on.

***

_Later._

Dean’s not concerned when he sees the pawprints appear, but he does recover his Colt revolver, check the chambers, and tuck it in the front of his jeans. The prints disappear back into the treeline for awhile, but then they return. Then they disappear, and then they return. Still, Dean doesn’t seem overly worried. It’s only when they come upon a pile of scat that’s so fresh it’s still steaming, that Dean gets a bit apprehensive. He stops Castiel in his tracks, and they even backtrack slightly. Dean turns on the GPS and spends a little while looking at it and comparing their location to the map as well as the terrain around them. His frown only deepens with increasing concern, and eventually he becomes frustrated, stuffing the map back into his pack with less care than he probably should take with something so old and important to their survival.

“Fuck,” he breathes, running a hand through his hair as he paces back and forth. His other hand is on his hip, and his eyes are focused-unfocused on the ground. “Fuck.” Finally, he lifts his head to look at Castiel and gestures around. “There’s nowhere for us to go but forward, Cas. This drop off,” he indicates Castiel should look over the side of the mountain, so he does, “Is way too steep for us to get down, and there’s no other path that’ll take us anywhere near where we want to be. We’re  _ close,  _ Cas. Maybe two hours from Coal Creek, if we really push it. We take one of these detour-paths and we could add an entire freakin’ _day_ to this trip.” 

Castiel thinks he’s following, but he wants to be sure so he clarifies, “You’re concerned that whatever made that pile of droppings is still nearby,” he surmises, and Dean nods.

“If I had to guess, that’s a polar bear. Just based on the size of the prints and the droppings, it’s big. Big enough that I’m not sure this guy,” he taps the gun in his pants, “would do the job. Probably scare him off, but I can’t say that’s something I want to risk, you know?”

“Mmm,” Castiel hums noncommittally. “In your opinion, is there really any choice here?”

Dean sighs, scuffing his toe into the snow and kicking it away so he can dig at the dirt underneath. “No, man. Not really. Not that’s safe. I mean, let's be real, nothing about this is safe. Anything could be waiting for us in these mountains. A storm could crop up again out of nowhere, you could get sick, one of us could get hurt- but at least right now we know we’re going in the right direction. We’re going towards help and safety, and at the very, very least, reliable shelter and warmth. We take a detour to steer clear of a bear that might or might not still be around... ” Dean shakes his head. “It’s hard for me to justify in my own head. But it’s also hard to walk you forward knowing that thing might be around the next corner.” 

Castiel nods his understanding slowly and asks, “And if he is? What is the likelihood that we would be attacked?”

Dean strokes his chin. “Depends on how hungry it is. Food's been kind of an increasing issue up here for a coupla years now, and these guys kill to eat. But I mean, we saw those deer, and it’s not the dead of winter… there’s a chance it’s eating fine. And in that case, he’d most likely ignore us. Might even be more scared of us than we are of it. So long as we don't make camp and leave food out, we'd be alright.” 

“Is there anything else we can do to protect ourselves?”

“Not really… I had some bear spray, but it got lost when we crashed. Never did find it.”

Castiel thinks for a moment and then takes Dean by the arm, ensuring he has his attention. “I’m willing to go forward on the route we agreed upon previously,” he says. “I understand the risks and I chose to do so of my own free will. You’re right, it’s the safest option overall. But I won’t have you feeling guilty over it,” Castiel warns. Dean smiles despite himself.

“You’re the boss,” he replies with a wink, but he still looks worried.

For a while they trek on in tense, anticipatory silence, Dean with one hand resting on his gun, the other pulling his end of the sled. Castiel scans their surroundings but finds his eyes drifting back to Dean, his partner's sharp gaze hyper-focused and repeatedly panning over their surroundings for any anomaly. Dean doesn’t relax for even a second, wound tight and ready to jump into action with less than a moment’s notice. But the bear doesn’t show his face, and eventually the tracks veer off to the left, up the side of the slope next to where they’re walking and disappearing into some brush. When they don’t reappear after twenty or so more minutes of walking, Dean’s shoulders seem to drop minutely, and he lets out an audible breath.

“Shit,” he says quietly, more to himself than Castiel. “I’ve run into tracks like these before, even seen a bear or two, but never had one of ‘em between me and where I wanted to go. You know? If you’re camping and you go for a hike, you start seeing tracks and bear shit you just turn the hell around and hightail it back to camp, you don’t keep walking and hope you get lucky.” He looks around again nervously, as if the bear might materialize out of thin air. “Anyway… you cool?”

“I’m cool,” Castiel affirms with a small smile. “I’m glad we stayed on course. It’s getting late.” It’s true that the light is starting to dim, just enough to be noticeable but not anywhere near sunset, since it’s only evening. Castiel supposes the added light at this time of year is a positive thing as they’d likely have been forced to stop and make camp by now otherwise. Truth be told, he’s looking forward to sleeping inside four walls tonight, perhaps more than he realized. Maybe it’ll be warm enough for him and Dean to sleep naked together. His eyes glaze over at the thought of being pressed shoulder to toe against Dean with zero barriers between them. Hey, a man can dream, can’t he?

“How much farther do you think, Dean?”

Dean scans the horizon with narrowed eyes. “Do you see that ridge over there? We’ll use it to head down into the valley. In fact… look, check it out.” Dean drops his ski pole and comes up behind Castiel, his left hand sliding around to grip Castiel’s left hip and his right arm coming across Castiel’s shoulder to point into the distance. “There’s the river. The Yukon.” He squeezes Castiel's hip.

“It looks so close from up here.”

“Yea, well, it’s the better part of ten miles past Coal Creek, so we won’t make it tonight. Tomorrow, though. And coal creek should only be a mile or two past where we come off the mountain. Easy peasy. Thank God, cuz it doesn’t look like there’s any snow down there to ease the way for the sled.”

Castiel nods, already distracted by the feel of Dean’s hands on him. He turns in Dean’s arms, all smiles as he considers the make-out session he’s about to con Dean into before they get moving again, but the sight over Dean’s shoulder has him freezing in place.

There, not forty yards away from them, is the biggest animal Castiel has ever seen. Rough estimate, this thing has to be eight or nine hundred pounds, about as tall as him on all fours and likely taller when upright. It looks fairly benign at first glance, and if this had been on TV or in a magazine, Castiel would have said the animal was beautiful- adorable, even. Until it becomes clear that this bear isn’t just out for an evening stroll. Almost casually, it scents the air, and just like that, Castiel and Dean are in its sights. The bear growls, and bares its teeth. Guess the eating out here isn’t as good as Dean hoped.

Dean’s pivoted by now and assessing the threat, his gun drawn and his other arm pushed protectively in front of Castiel to shield him. “Listen to me, Cas,” he says quietly, and far more calmly than Castiel’s sure his own voice would have come out. “I need you to listen carefully, and do exactly what I tell you, alright? When I say so, you’re gonna back up slowly, and get behind the tree line to my right. Once you do, you run. As fast and as hard as you can, but stay out of sight. I’ll be right behind you, I just gotta frighten him off, okay?”

Castiel furrows his brow. “If you’re going to frighten him off, why would I need to run?”

“Dammit, Cas,” Dean growls. “We don’t have time for this.” Castiel raises his eyebrows and Dean relents. “I’m gonna scare him off with the gun and then come after you, hopefully he’ll be too pissed off and scared to pay attention to where we go, especially if we’re out of sight. Here, take this,” he reaches in his pocket with his non-gun hand and pulls out another gun- no, the flare gun. “If we get separated, get to the ridge and set this off. Then  _ stay put.  _ I’ll find you.”

“Dean, this feels an awful lot like the self-sacrificing bullshit you promised you would stop…”

Dean’s face looks pained as he cranes his neck to press a kiss to the corner of Castiel’s mouth. “Please Cas. Go, go now. I’ll be right behind you, I promise.”

Castiel looks at Dean skeptically as he reluctantly backs up to the tree line, but the polar bear is advancing steadily and he’s definitely fixated on Dean. Castiel meets Dean’s gaze as he steps back into the brush, holding eye contact for just a moment too long before turning and bolting through the brush. It’s not five seconds later that a shot rings out followed shortly after by a roar, and then three more shots. And then there’s silence.

Castiel slows for a moment, wanting nothing more than to turn back and make sure that Dean is okay. But Dean seemed fairly sure of his plan, and Castiel doesn’t want to be responsible for putting them both in unneccesary danger. So does as he was told, and runs. The brush is thick and almost impossible to move quickly through, but it’s loud and therefore unmistakeable when Castiel hears it breaking and crashing behind him. Either Dean is running after him, or something else is.

Without warning the thick underbrush ends, and the extra energy Castiel’s been expending to push his way through sends him sprawling unchecked and limbs flailing into a sizeable clearing. The ground is still snow-covered here, but it suddenly feels tenous underfoot. The farther Castiel stumbles, the more he can feel cracking and splitting beneath his shoes. He realizes what he’s blundered onto only a moment before he’s faced with the consequences.

As the layer of ice hidden beneath the snow disintegrates under Castiel’s weight, he’s plunged legs first into piercingly cold, pitch-black water. As his body sinks, he feels certain that this is finally the end of the line for him. This one mistake, this one wrong step, after everything- this is what's going to do him in. Castiel's hardly a fatalist, but it’s certainly a lot to ask to be handed yet  _ another  _ miraculous, last-second save. All the same, he throws up a quick prayer anyway. He doesn't hold out much hope for it, though. He and Dean have gotten lucky too many times, had too many near-misses in the last week to expect that this disaster will end in any way other than Castiel going into the light.

Not that he’s planning on going out without a fight. Unfortunately, he’s going to have to _move_ to fight, and he’s currently limited in that aspect by the paralyzing initial shock of what feels like being stabbed all over by a thousand knives. Whatever pond he’s stumbled into is deep enough that Castiel’s entire body has gone under, leaving him blinking up dazedly at the reflection of the sun through the wrong side of the bright, icy surface. He watches in an almost detached way as the bubbles leaving his mouth drift up to the surface and burst. It’s so cold that his brain actually, physically hurts in his head from just floating there. It’s so overwhelming and disorienting that as much as Castiel surely wants to live, he might have just kept bobbing there like an oversized fishing lure. But then the tips of his toes brush the bottom, and it's enough to startle him back into action. With his last bit of self-awareness and energy he forces himself to wriggle down, to flatten his feet on the pond floor, and to push off with all his might.

As he bursts through the surface, his hands shoot through first, then his head, and he gasps for air. His lungs hurt from the cold and his breath makes puffy white clouds as his frozen, blocky arms flail wildly at the intact ice surrounding the area he fell through. He manages to get his gloves off and use his nails to claws frantically at the ice for purchase, but every time he tries to pull up, the thin layer of frozen water simply breaks off and widens the hole. The only thing it seems he can do is to keep breaking down the ice so he can move closer to the shore. He's hoping the pond will become more shallow as he reaches the edge, perhaps allowing him to stand and walk out. 

He makes slow but steady progress, breaking away the ice and swimming forward until the tips of his toes finally touch bottom and the ice stops falling away as easily. When he’s so weakened that he can’t swim any further, and can no longer break away the thickening ice, he tries to pull himself up again, pushing feebly off of the bottom as he does. It’s no good- the ice is perfectly slick, and there’s nothing for him to hold onto while the bottom is still to far away to be useful. “Help,” he calls weakly, his voice small and cracking. “Help, Dean,” he tries again, but it’s barely above a whisper.

His hands are slipping from the ice when he remembers the flare gun tucked in his pocket. He forces himself to drop one of his arms back into the water, hissing at the shock of pain he feels when he does. He somehow manages to pull the gun out, praying it’ll still work after being submerged, frozen fingers fumbling uselessly at the trigger. Icy water floods into his mouth as he tries to operate the gun while balancing on one set of his toes, his other leg kicking out as hard as he can to try and keep his head above the waterline.

By some miracle, he’s able to point the gun at the sky and pull the trigger. It works. It’s loud, and his shooting straight up sort of backfires as the residue rains down on him, but he  _ did it.  _ His legs are feeling pretty numb now, and he knows it’s only a matter of time before he’s not going to be able to hold himself up anymore. His hands are already at the very edge of the thick ice, and not doing much to help keep him there. He marvels at how close he is to the shore. He can’t be more than three feet from a tree, and there are roots that are probably less than two. If only he had the strength to push himself out, just part of the way. But he’s  _ tired  _ and so cold, and everything feels so heavy. His eyes are begging to be closed, and Castiel considers it.  _ Just for a moment,  _ he thinks,  _ I’ll rest my eyes, and then I’ll feel better. I’ll be able to get out then.  _ His eyes are drifting shut as something comes thrashing and crashing through the brush, and Castiel wonders if he’s about to become a water-logged polar bear snack.  _ Hope he likes popsicles,  _ Castiel thinks, letting out a short, deranged giggle that results in another river of icy water flowing into his mouth.

But it’s no polar bear that comes flying through the treeline, very nearly following in Castiel’s deadly path. Dean catches himself at the very last second, his arms flying out to wrap around a tree and his feet slipping and skidding on the ice below him. He recovers his balance quickly and sees Castiel immediately. “CAS!” He’s screaming, and Castiel wants to tell him not to worry, that he’s not in any pain, that he’s just going to go to sleep for awhile, and then everything will be fine. His eyes slipped closed and he drifts just below the surface, sputtering back awake when the cold water floods into his nose. When he looks up again, Dean is close, laying on his stomach on the ice, starfished out and tied off to the tree he’d been holding onto when Castiel went under. “CAS!” He’s still screaming Castiel’s name on repeat, as he army crawls to Castiel's side, reaching out to grab at Castiel's jacket and trying unsuccessfully to pull him out.

“CAS, you’ve got to wake up, WAKE UP! You have to help me Cas, CAS!” Dean’s voice is harsh, and the naked terror in it brings Castiel back to reality in a way nothing else has been able to.  _ Dean. Dean is here to help him.  _ He focuses, and forces himself to listen to Dean, to follow his instructions the best that he’s able. He’s still mostly dead weight, but he manages to get his arms draped around Dean’s neck, and then Dean’s hauling him up by rolling them over. He’s grunting, and screaming in Castiel's ear, and his skin is fire-hot where Castiel's is lifelessly white and cold. Castiel does his best to help, but he’s not positive he isn’t making things worse. Fortunately, the layer of ice that he was unable to break away while in the water seems to be genuinely thick, and doesn’t crack too much under their combined weight. When Castiel’s legs and feet are finally hauled from the freezing water, his body collapsed bonelessly across Dean’s sprawled, sweating one, he doesn’t feel the miraculous relief he expected to. Instead, he still feels tired, still feels like he’s slipping under, like the darkness from the plane crash is creeping slowly into the corners of his vision again, intent on claiming him and holding on this time.

“HOLD ON, Cas goddamn it, _come on,_ you’ve gotta hold on baby,  _ please,  _ Cas,  _ please,”  _ Dean’s still yelling and babbling as he uses the rope to drag them both across the short length of ice and back to the safety of solid ground. “Cas, we’ve gotta - the sled, I have it, we’ve got to-” Dean’s bordering on nonsensical at this point, or maybe Castiel’s just drifting, because while he’s pretty sure he should be doing something important, he can’t quite remember what it is. Dean’s pulling at his clothes though, and he’s temporarily confused as to why his body doesn’t respond. After all those years of feeling nothing when people touched him, it’s strange and shocking to have his body react that way to  _ Dean. _

“‘M no hard,” he slurs at Dean.

“Cas, you fucking idiot,” Dean replies, tugging his underwear down and his wet socks off. Dean’s wrapping his own jacket around Castiel’s shoulders, zipping it up without pushing his arms into the holes, and then the world turns upside down and he’s looking at Dean’s back. “Don’t you fucking die on me you asshole,” Dean huffs breathlessly. Castiel has no idea how long he stays slung over Dean’s shoulder like that, swaying with Dean’s burdened gait, but it doesn’t seem that long. On the other hand, it might be an eternity.  _Time's funny like that,_ Castiel thinks. Dean’s still talking to him, even though he’s badly out of breath. It’s mostly threats and demands but Castiel thinks he catches an  _“I need you, Cas, please,"_ in there  too. 

And then the world spins again, and Castiel’s propped up against the sled. Dean’s whipping their sleeping bag open then and tucking him inside, stripping down to join him and stuffing the dead space around them with dry clothing and blankets. Dean opens the zipper of his own jacket and pulls Castiel’s naked body flush against his chest. He holds him there with one arm, pulling the sleeping bag’s opening tight around his neck. He keeps his other hand outside the bag though, fumbling around and cursing. After a few minutes, the hot water bottles appear, shoved up into Castiel’s armpits and in-between his legs, as he vaguely recalls doing for Dean what seems like years ago.

“Cas, it’s okay, it’s gonna be okay now,” Dean keeps repeating, and Castiel wonders who he’s trying to convince. The blackness is still pushing at the edges of Castiel’s vision, the overwhelming desire to give in and go to sleep no less present. But Dean’s insisting a mug at his lips, and it's pleasant, full of sugary hot water. “Drink Cas, c’mon sweetheart, please, you gotta help me here,” Dean’s sweet voice is more enticing than any sleep, so Castiel does his best to comply. His lips are so cold and stiff that a lot of the liquid dribbles out of his mouth and down his chin, but what he’s able to drink goes down rough. It feels like he’s being burned from the inside out, but somehow the burn feels slightly better than whatever was there previously. He drinks more, greedily sucking as much down as he can, barring spills. As soon as he’s finished, Dean’s refilling the cup and encouraging him to take in more. At some point, Dean’s also pulled a tarp around them and over their heads, and for the first time since falling in the lake, Castiel considers the possibility that he may actually feel warm again someday.

He’s shivering now, which Dean seems to be excited about. He burrows into Dean’s chest and Dean holds him close, rotating the water bottles out for fresh ones sometimes and forcing more warm liquid down his throat whenever he’s able. Eventually, Castiel starts feeling a little better.

And when that happens, he finds that he can resist no longer. His eyes close and he sleeps, safe and on his way back to warm, tucked up snugly against Dean’s chest. Dean’s steady (if a bit rapid) heartbeat is comforting and wonderful in his ear and his hands are soft and gentle as they rub circles into his skin. The ominous blackness has retreated, and the dark that takes him away is a familiar one. 

He dreams of Dean. 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's be friends!  
> [My Twitter](https://twitter.com/caslostwings)  
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	7. Warm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel and Dean finally reach Coal Creek Camp. Castiel's determined not to let a silly thing like "almost dying" get in the way of taking his and Dean's relationship to the next level.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thar be explicit sexual content ahead, mateys!
> 
> This chapter contains an AMAZING art commission from the spectacular @winchester_reload (tumblr)/saltywords (AO3)

Castiel drifts in and out for quite a while. He’s aware of being pressed up against Dean for what seems like a very long time. Somewhere in the back of his head, his brain is trying its best to send up alarm bells, to remind him that he should be doing something, should be going somewhere, but Dean’s body is wonderfully solid and warm, and doing anything that would require moving just seems like a really terrible idea. Dean is safety, he’s protection, he is Castiel’s shield and shelter from everything and anything that would dare hurt him. So he drifts. For a while, it’s all vague heaviness and numbed sensations, but as time goes on, Castiel’s discomfort increases. The numbness in his limbs fades and is aggressively replaced by a fierce tingling and burning. In his dazed and disoriented state, every feeling is amplified and hard to reconcile with reality. On some level, he knows that he’s moaning, knows he’s twitching and grabbing at Dean in a way that has to be terribly uncomfortable for him, but Dean just holds on, soothing his hands through Castiel’s hair and down his back, whispering words of comfort in his ear, encouraging him to drink the warm fluids pressed miraculously to his lips. Eventually, the painful, irritating sensations become more manageable, and Castiel starts to feel more at peace. So much so that he’s eventually able to drop back off into an empty, blissful sleep.

When he wakes again, Dean’s body heat is missing and he’s... moving? Upon blinking his eyes open, the first thing he sees is snowy ground flying by in front of his still-blurry eyes, and Castiel can’t quite understand how that’s happening. He’s still tightly wrapped in the sleeping bag with a hat pulled down over his ears, thick socks on his feet, and Dean’s thermals hugging his body. Warm water bottles are tucked all around him and a sweatshirt is folded under his head, which is resting on… their packed up tent? _Oh. I’m on the sled,_ Castiel realizes, tilting his head up so that he can look for Dean. What he finds himself faced with is Dean’s back, his body visibly working hard even under his thick jacket. Not thinking, Castiel tries to sit up, prevented from effectively doing so by what appears to be the repurposed ratchet straps from the plane. He must jostle the sled enough that Dean notices though, because suddenly he’s by his side, whipping the camping stove out and heating up more water before Castiel can say a word. He opens his mouth to speak and Dean shushes him as he whips out a disposable thermometer strip from his pocket and sticks it underneath Castiel’s tongue.

“Airplane emergency bag had them,” he explains. When Castiel’s water is ready, Dean pours it into their mug and adds some of the electrolyte solution. He helps Castiel drink it down after first removing the thermometer, reading it with narrowed eyes but ultimately pronouncing Castiel to be “doing well”.

“Blech,” Castiel says, sticking his tongue out in protest of the “tea’s” taste. He shakes his head and blinks the lingering blurriness from his eyes, feeling slightly better already. “Hello, Dean,” he whispers.

Dean lets out a little noise that falls somewhere between a laugh and a sob, cupping Castiel’s face and dropping his lips to his forehead. “Fuck, Cas,” he murmurs wetly into Castiel’s skin, and Castiel doesn’t need to see him to know that his eyes are full, maybe even spilling over. “I thought…” he shakes his head as he snuffles, attempting to cover up his emotion by pressing another kiss to Castiel’s head, “You scared the shit out of me, man.” He pulls back and sure enough, his eyes are bright and shiny. “How do you feel?”

“I’m alright,” Castiel answers honestly, because he seems to be. “We’re moving?”

Dean nods in affirmation. “We’re almost down the mountain, actually.” He points, and Castiel follows his finger to look back in the direction they came from. The mountain towers over them, and it’s then that Castiel realizes the snow on the ground is hardly even a dusting. It looked like more as it was speeding by.

Castiel makes another effort to sit up and push his way out of the sleeping bag, but Dean’s firm hand pressing down on the straps stops him.

“Dean, let me up. This has got to be hell on you to pull. I’m perfectly capable of walking. I think.” The truth is, Castiel’s _not_ one hundred percent sure he can walk the mile or so Dean promised the first cabin would be from here, but he feels too guilty not to try. Dean isn’t having any of it though and shakes his head emphatically.

“The hell you are, Cas. I’m still not sure forgoing making camp and leaving you alone in that bag was the right decision, but shit, I never saw which direction that fucking bear went when it ran off, and the last thing we need is it tracking us, or trying to eat through our tent in the middle of the night like we’re a coupla delicious human empanadas.” Dean’s eyes are wide, and darting around like the bear might pop up out of nowhere again, and Castiel finds himself wondering if that’s actually a possibility. “Besides,” Dean continues, “You wouldn’t let my ass get up to pee, and I wasn’t nearly as frozen as you, so consider this revenge.”

“That was because it was below freezing outside and there was a snowstorm! It has to be fifty degrees out here now. Maybe more!”

Castiel’s protests go unacknowledged save for Dean winking a still-emotional eye at him, his expression as rueful as it is amused. “Just sit tight, alright? Humor me. Nap if you can. I’ll take care of you.” Dean crouches then, removing the now-lukewarm water bottles one at a time from around Castiel, heating the water up and replacing them again. Castiel has to admit, he’s awfully cozy, and now that the terrible tingling feeling has dissipated, he’s pretty comfortable. Dean’s a wizard with this emergency sled thing.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Castiel says quietly. “I feel so very stupid.”

Dean doesn’t look up from where he’s working with the water bottles. “Nothing to apologize for, sunshine. Could’ve happened to anyone. You were just doing what I told you to do, so if anyone’s to blame-”

“For fuck’s sake, Dean.”

Dean’s face shoots up, first looking surprised and then guilty. “Sorry,” he rushes to say. “Force of habit. Let me try again?” Castiel nods with a small smile and Dean clears his throat. “It wasn’t _anyone’s_ fault,” Dean says pointedly, “Crazy things happen out in the wild sometimes. And you’re alright. You’re going to be fine. That’s what’s important.”

Castiel nods, his eyelids beginning to droop against his will. “How long’ve we been walking?” His yawns in the middle of his question, and he knows his voice is getting a little slurred.

Dean strokes his hair and replaces the last water bottle in his bag, stowing the stove safely on the back of the sled where Castiel can’t accidentally burn himself. “A while,” he says. “Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. Sleep. Hopefully the next time you wake up, we’ll be at the cabin. Dream about that, alright? Four walls, wood stove, real bed? You and me snuggled up together.”

Castiel blinks up at him sleepily and graces him with the widest smile he can muster. He probably looks like a crazy person, but it prompts a return smile from Dean that makes it worth it. “Alright,” he says. Dean leans down to press his lips softly to Castiel’s mouth, and it warms Castiel in a way the water bottles have got nothing on. He watches Dean’s back as the sled starts moving again, and is lulled to sleep by the gentle sway.

***

As it turns out,  Castiel has no problems sleeping for the rest of the ride. His next conscious awareness is being shaken awake by an excited Dean. “Cas, Cas wake up! There’s someone at the camp, Cas!” Castiel rouses, waking up much more quickly this time and looks to where Dean is pointing. Sure enough, there’s a thin trail of smoke curling above the treeline, maybe a quarter mile from where they’re standing. Dean’s rooting around in his pockets when his face drops, and he remembers.

“Oh fuck. The flare gun…” He looks up at Castiel, his eyes wide. “It’s at the bottom of that pond. _Fuck,”_ Dean curses violently. He looks back towards the smoke. “That fire’s not being stoked. If anything, it’s been going out for awhile. Hopefully whoever made it is still there, kinda reckless to leave a fire burning out here, even if it’s in a wood stove.”

“Wood stove?” Castiel asks blearily, rubbing at his eyes.

Dean fidgets with the pockets of his jacket before turning back to Castiel. “Yea,” he replies distractedly. “That should be Coal Creek Camp. The dredge is like,” he gestures in the same direction of the trail they’re taking, and isn’t that something, an actual _trail,_ “Way farther down that way. But Cas, I’m thinkin’,” he hesitates and trails off. “I don’t want to leave you here alone, but what if those people are leaving? They might be shutting down camp to head down to the Roadhouse? That’s how it works out here. They do their retreat thing and then they get picked up by boat at the River. Or at the shitty little airstrip, but I haven’t heard any planes. Anyway, we don’t have the flare gun, and we might miss them if we keep on at this pace.”

Castiel finally understands. “You want to go on ahead.”

Dean nods reluctantly. “I think… Cas, if that’s people, they’ll have a way to call for help. That actual camp is used for retreats for writers and shit like that, not survivalists. They aren’t coming out here unprepared. We could have you out of here by tonight.”

“We could _both_ be out of here by tonight,” Castiel corrects him.

Dean tips his head before replying, “I’m not the one who spent the afternoon in a pool of ice water, but yes, both of us.”

Castiel sighs. “Don’t be dramatic, Dean.” He starts to pull himself out of the sleeping bag, but Dean stops him, and realization strikes. “You don’t want me to come with you,” Castiel says, and Dean averts his eyes.

“Now that isn’t true at all, man. It’s just that, I’m gonna run. And there’s no way you should be running and stressing your body in the condition you’re in. Just stay here, alright? You’ll be fine- I’ll be back in less than fifteen minutes, tops, hopefully with help.”

“What if a polar bear shows up?” Castiel’s (mostly) joking, but Dean’s brow furrows in concern. “Dean, I wasn’t-”

“No, you’re right,” Dean says, pulling his gun from where it’s tucked in the back of his jeans.  

“There were eight in here, before the bear,” he explains, “There are four left. You know how to use this?”

Castiel takes the gun gingerly. “Balthazar used to enjoy going to the shooting range, but that was… another lifetime. A decade ago, at least, and I’m not sure that I ever shot something similar.” He looks up at Dean and smiles. “I mostly went because he’d buy me dinner afterward, and Balthazar has expensive taste.” Dean returns the smile, and points out a few features on the gun, showing Castiel how to cock it and sight his target.

He hesitates, seeming reluctant to take his hands away from where they’re resting on Castiel’s own. “I’ll be right back,” he promises.

“Alright,” Castiel replies. “Go. Be my knight in shining armor.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but stands and takes off running. He’s sprinting, hardly holding back, but Castiel can see him glancing back at him over his shoulder every ten yards or so. He watches until Dean disappears, and then leans back against the sled, staring up at the treetops and wondering what he’s supposed to do now. His arm is throbbing, more painful and far more insistent than the low-grade sting he’d gotten used to days ago. _That can’t be a good sign._ He slides his arm out of his sleeve and pulls it through the bottom of his shirt. Dean would probably kill him for doing this out here, but he’s tired of relying on Dean for everything. He’s perfectly capable of assessing and redressing his own wound.

He’s surprised to see that the bandage he’d had on when he fell into the pond is still there and still damp. Dean must have forgotten to pull it off in all the chaos, and Castiel can hardly blame him. Who’s worried about some superficial burn when someone’s freezing to death? Castiel turns and rummages through the pack Dean left leaning up against the sled, conveniently close to Castiel. He pulls out the sizable emergency kit and takes stock of what’s left, noting with some concern that Dean wasn’t wrong about their dwindling supplies. There’s enough for maybe two more dressing changes, and that’s if he’s extremely sparing with the gauze. Castiel contemplates the small bottle of extra-strength Tylenol for a moment, ultimately dry swallowing two of the pills. _What the hell, can’t make anything worse,_ he thinks.

With the pills down and his supplies spread out on his lap, he sets about peeling the old dressing off. It’s far more painful than any time Dean’s done it previously, and Castiel wonders if that’s a sign the wound has worsened, or if he’s just inept. Upon loosening a corner and catching sight of his damaged skin, he’s given the unfortunate answer. The wound is definitely worse. The last time Castiel had _really_ taken a good look at it was just after the crash, before Dean had dressed it for the first time, and it truly hadn’t looked too bad. Raw, bloody and with several large, burst blisters, but more ugly than anything else. He’d been pretty sure then that the damage didn’t extend down through all the layers of his skin, and that had been comforting. Now, he’s not so sure. The edges are irregular- that’s no change from before- but instead of being dry and red, they’re macerated and sticky with dark discoloration underneath. There’s a developing layer of yellow-ish gunk covering several parts of the burn, and the rest is still an angry red. Castiel’s reasonably sure he doesn’t need a medical degree to declare this thing majorly problematic.

And it _hurts._ Removing the old bandage hurts, especially when bits stick to the wound bed. He grits his teeth and forges on, managing to get the nasty, drainage-filled gauze off without too much agony. But the cool wind on his skin doesn’t feel much better. The wound obviously has some exposed nerve issues, and because of that, it seems even the barest touch is bound to be an unpleasant one. He spares a wish that he’d waited for Dean but then thinks of the dirty, wet bandage sitting on his skin and concedes it was probably best not to. Castiel manages to spread a layer of triple-antibiotic cream over the wound bed without passing out from pain and drops a couple 4x4 squares on top when he's done. He wraps the whole thing in rolled gauze, just like Dean usually does. Once the wound is clean and dressed, Castiel thinks it feels marginally better, or perhaps that’s just the relief that’s come from no longer poking at it. Either way, he’s feeling pretty glad that they’re coming up upon the public use cabins and hopefully, rescue.

With no way to tell the passage of time, Castiel’s only option is to make wild guesses at how long Dean has been gone. He estimates his bandage changing took between ten to fifteen minutes, but it could have been more. Regardless, Dean should have been back shortly after he finished. Castiel watches the path, keeping his eyes on the place where Dean disappeared, and listening for any signs of his return. But no one comes. Castiel fidgets and tries to entertain himself, wondering when it would be considered more dangerous to keep sitting out here instead of trying to walk the remaining distance into the camp. He’s _just_ about to pull on the extra pair of dry boots when Dean’s sandy head appears in the distance. “Dean!” He calls, waving like an idiot, as if Dean needs help locating him. Even from a distance, Castiel can see Dean’s tired but warm smile at his greeting. What he doesn’t see, is anyone besides Dean. _Perhaps they weren’t able to come with him for some reason._

When Dean gets within talking distance, Castiel can see that he’s exhausted. There are bags under his bloodshot eyes and his gait is trudging. It’s clear that it’s all he can do to put one foot in front of the other. When he arrives at the sled, he collapses on top of the sleeping bag next to Castiel, who shifts over as much as he can, pulling Dean in tight to keep him from falling off. Dean drops his head into the crook of Castiel’s neck and breathes deeply, not saying a word.

“It’s alright, Dean,” Castiel soothes, reading between the lines of Dean’s behavior. “We’ll rest tonight and find them tomorrow.”

“M’sorry, Cas,” Dean mumbles. “We must have just missed them. Fuck our luck, man.”

Castiel nods, his cheek pressed to Dean’s hair. “It does seem to be somewhat unfortunate lately. Although, on the other hand, we _are_ alive, and unexpectedly so after all that’s happened.”

“Can’t argue with that logic,” Dean sighs. He pushes himself up to sitting, scrubbing a hand over his face and rubbing at his eyes. “So should we- hey,” he notices Castiel’s injured arm and pulls it out of the sleeping bag. “Did you do this yourself?”

Castiel blinks at him and points back down the trail the way they came. “Oh, no. While you were gone I just popped down to the Urgent Care a mile or so back. Yea, they were running a two-for-one special, post-hypothermia and burn care. I got you a lollipop, but you took too long so I ate it,” he says, perfectly deadpan.

Dean’s real smile cracks through then, and Castiel’s relieved to see it brightening up his tired face. “Smartass. And I’m sorry for taking so long. When no one was at the camp I ran down the trail a ways, hoping I’d be able to catch them, or at least see them up ahead, but no such luck. Anyway, where’d you stash the old bandages?” Castiel fishes off the side of the sled and brings them up using only two fingers. They’re gross. Dean wrinkles his nose and he’s not wrong, the smell coming off of them isn’t pleasant. “Shit, Cas,” Dean says, sobering at the sight of them. “You should have waited for me, I wanted to get a look.”

Castiel shrugs. “What does it matter? There’s nothing we can do about it anyway.”

Dean raises his eyebrows. “Uh, the hell there isn’t. Cas, if that thing is infected, we’re not stopping at Coal Creek. I’ll pull you through the night if I have to because there’s no reversing that mess if it starts making you sick.” Dean puts the back of his hand over Castiel’s forehead and eyes him suspiciously. “No fever… though you _were_ hypothermic just a few hours ago. Would we even know if you had one? Shit, Cas. I’m not exactly a doctor and this is starting to make me really nervous. We should keep going.” He goes to stand and Castiel grabs his arm to pull him back down.

“Dean, no. You look like a stiff breeze would blow you over. We’ve been walking for over twelve hours today, and you’ve been running, and pulling all of our gear, _and_ me. You haven’t eaten since breakfast and you’re so worried about taking care of me you’re starting to neglect yourself. At this rate, you’re going to collapse halfway between Coal Creek and the Roadhouse and then where will we be? You know that I’m right,” Castiel crosses his arms and stares Dean down.

Dean hesitates and looks Castiel up and down skeptically. “You swear you don’t feel sick?”

Castiel crosses his heart and holds up the pinkie finger of his left hand. “Pinky swear,” he says with a grin but then sobers again. “I promise, Dean. You’ll be the first to know about any new aches, twinges or pains, no matter how small. Besides, you’ll be lying right next to me. You’ll probably notice a fever before I do.”

Dean huffs and stares down Castiel for a long moment. When Castiel doesn’t flinch or relent, he reluctantly nods. “Yea, alright. But I want to go on record as saying that I think this is a bad idea.”

“Your concern is duly noted. May I walk to camp, or are you going to insist on pulling me the rest of the way for no reason other than manly bragging rights?”

“Do you even have to ask that? Sit back and look pretty.”

“Ah, finally. Something I’m good at.”

***

Coal Creek Camp isn’t how Castiel imagined it, but then again, what has been on this trip? There’s an assortment of low buildings, most of them appearing to be small, single-room cabins, and a couple longer ones that might have been a mess hall or workshop space. Dean bypasses all of them, heading out of the camp proper completely. “Dean? I thought we talked about this. Where are you going?”

“Oh,” Dean replies distractedly. “Sorry. I should have explained - the Park Service owns all of these buildings. You have to book them ahead and get the keys to open them up and stuff. I already checked when I was here before, everything’s locked up, no signs of life. The public use cabin is right outside the camp, on the trail. It’s always open and it’s first come, first serve. That’s where the smoke was coming from, too. Stove looked like it’d probably been burning all day. I threw a couple more logs in though, cabin should be nice and toasty for us.”

“Does that mean I’ll be permitted out of my bag?”

Dean looks over his shoulder, his eyes sparkling. Castiel’s still enthralled with his ability to amuse Dean, and he finds himself contagiously grinning back. “If you play your cards right,” Dean replies with a smirk. “I might even let you use the outhouse all by yourself.”

Castiel’s eyes widen. “I’d like to see you try and stop me.”

Dean throws his head back and laughs. “Revenge is sweet, isn’t it?”

***

The little cabin is surprisingly pleasant. It’s wooden and obviously only one-room, even from the outside, but the paint looks kept up and the shingles on the roof seem almost new. Castiel’s impressed, considering where they are, and that this is a free service. Dean seems to read his mind and agrees, “Park service does a really nice job on these. There are like, eighty or something across the whole state. Pretty cool.” He parks the sled in the rear of the little building and Castiel notices there’s a ton of firewood already stacked up there. He’s relieved that Dean won’t have to go out to collect any more before he gets to relax.

Dean’s at his side immediately as he stands, wrapping him back up in his own jacket and ushering him inside quickly, despite Castiel’s insistence that he’s fine and can certainly walk ten feet without going unconscious from cold. “Not taking any chances,” Dean replies stubbornly, and Castiel doesn’t bother to argue. Inside, it’s sparse but cozy, and best of all- it’s _warm._ Once Dean’s satisfied that he can stand without collapsing, Castiel doesn’t hesitate to poke around. There’s a wood-burning stove with a chimney that vents through the roof smack in the middle of the room, which seems ideal for heating purposes. There’s a wooden bed-platform, at least double bed sized, and probably a bit wider. There’s a few small curtained windows, a little table and chairs, a narrow countertop, and a couple of cabinets that have basic dishware and a few mismatched pots and pans. There’s even a few real MREs pushed into the back of one of the cabinets. He does a quick search for any medical supplies but comes up empty, which is unfortunate but not unexpected.

“There really is an outhouse,” Dean says helpfully. “It’s back off the trail a little ways, I’ll show you.”

“Oh, so I _am_ allowed to leave the cabin. Thank you kindly, Warden Winchester.”

Dean snorts. “ _You’re_ the drama queen, do you know that? Although,” he reconsiders, his eyes lighting up. “You _could_ call me warden again if you wanted.” He wiggles his eyebrows and comes up behind Castiel to wrap his arms around him and kiss his neck. “Or, and I’m just spitballing here, I could call _you_ warden, and be the big bad prisoner… There could be outfits.”

Castiel turns in Dean’s arms. “I thought that I was fragile and in need of copious rest?”

Dean pulls away, looking guilty as ever. “Shit, I’m sorry Cas. You’re right, I--” but he doesn’t get another word out because Castiel drags him back in and kisses him solidly.

“That was a joke, Dean,” he says firmly against Dean’s lips. “I feel perfectly fine. Well, perhaps not _perfectly_ fine. I am tired and, if I’m being honest, I’m not entirely sure that I have the energy for explicit roleplay tonight.” Dean huffs a laugh into his mouth at that, and he continues, “But I would very much like to be close to you. And I’m not opposed… to more.”

Dean pulls back slightly. “I dunno, Cas. Feels sorta irresponsible, doesn’t it? Shouldn’t we be saving our strength and stuff? I’m worried about you.”

“And on the other side of that argument, I almost died today. And if I want to feel alive, I think that you should oblige me.”

Dean narrows his eyes and pulls out his finger again, waggling it at Castiel. “Unfair use of near-death experiences!”

“I’ll let you fuck me.”

“That is literally the opposite of resting.”

“I’ll just lay there,” Castiel smirks. “No work for me at all.”

“You’ll just- ?” Dean looks at him incredulously for a moment. “As tempting as that is, I’m going to have to pass,” he says, sarcastically. “Besides, you don’t seriously want your first time to be some lubeless rush job when both of us are half-ready to pass out. At least, I don’t want that for you.”

“While I appreciate the chivalry, Mr. Winchester, you’ll find that it’s unnecessary. Who said anything about this being my first time?”

Dean looks confused, and a bit uncomfortable, shifting on his feet as he struggles to come up with a reply. “Uhm, didn’t… you did? I thought?”

Castiel takes pity on him, guiding Dean’s fidgeting body to sit in one of the chairs and following him down to straddle his lap. He shakes his head, “I told you, I’ve had several sexual partners and experiences. While I haven’t in the past felt sexual attraction, I’ve on occasion experienced a “spark” or two, you might call it.” He tips Dean’s chin up so that their eyes lock. “And I’ve been curious. It’s human nature to want to experiment,” he says softly. “What I _said_ was that I’ve never experienced sex combined with real attraction, real desire. Until now. I’ve waited my entire life to feel the way that you make me feel.” He leans in to kiss Dean softly, leaving Dean to chase his lips when he pulls away. Castiel shifts in Dean’s lap, intentionally creating some tempting friction. “So perhaps you can understand, why waiting is really the last thing I want to do.”

Dean makes a soft keening sound in the back of his throat. His voice is strangled when he speaks, “You, uh- hard to argue with that,” he stutters out, squeezing Castiel’s thighs.

Castiel grinds down in Dean’s lap, lets his hands caress Dean’s sides, move his mouth to nip at his ear. He knows he’s playing dirty now, but after the day - _the fucking week_ \- he’s had, he thinks he’s entitled. The way things are going, one of them’s going to spontaneously burst into flames or fall through a rip in the space-time continuum before they ever get to be together properly, and Castiel just isn’t willing to take that chance. _We deserve this,_ he thinks to himself. _We survived, we’re surviving. What’s the goddamn point of survival if we never get to live?_

He appreciates that sentiment so much that he says it out loud. “What’s the point of surviving if we aren’t living, Dean? Please,” his voice is low and entreating. “Please, Dean, I really need this.

Dean swallows thickly. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispers as Castiel presses their foreheads together.

“Please let me make that decision for myself,” Castiel replies, stroking down the side of Dean’s face.

Dean’s eyes snap up to his. “What about lube, Cas? I’m willing to buy that you feel good enough for sex, but there’s theoretical hurt and there’s attempting butt-stuff without lube, and one of those is the kind of pain that’s not subjective.”

Castiel shrugs. “There’s olive oil in the cabinet.”

Dean wrinkles his nose. “Olive- seriously, Cas? You’re gonna corrupt salads for me forever.”

“You don’t even like salads, Dean.”

“This is true. Hell, might even go the other way for me,” Dean replies, suddenly amused. “You can’t blame me if you take me out for a fancy dinner and I pop a boner during the salad course, though.”

Castiel puts a hand over his chest and acts mock-offended, “You’re fucking me and I’m buying _you_ dinner? That was not how I was lead to believe this worked.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean grins. “I was under the impression that we were going to do this more than once.” Before Castiel can snark off at him again, Dean stands up, his arms going under Castiel’s to steady him on his feet as he pushes up. “Alright cupcake, let me bring the rest of our shit in before we get any more carried away.” He slaps Castiel’s ass lightly and herds him into the other chair. “You sit tight,” he says, pointing a warning finger at him as he disappears back out the door.

Three trips later, all of their important items are inside. Castiel refuses to sit like a lump while Dean does all the work, especially since they’re warm and in no current danger of any kind, and he’s definitely still trying to convince Dean he’s in good enough shape for some more _physical_ activities. He gets some water heating on the camp stove for their dinner, and then he and Dean make their bed together. The lay all the extra blankets over their bedrolls for added cushion, and stuff some clothes into sweatshirts to use as pillows. It’s pretty damn domestic when they’re finished if Castiel does say so himself. They steal glances, passing touches, and the occasional chaste kiss as they work, but by unspoken agreement, nothing goes any further yet. Instead, Castiel finishes making dinner and divides the bagged meal into two actual bowls, courtesy of the cabin.

For the first time since knowing each other, they eat a meal at an actual table while sitting on actual chairs, positioned across from each other like two completely normal people. It’s almost strange, and even a little awkward, but then Dean’s foot catches Castiel’s under the table, and they’re back to smiling at each other like idiots. It’s finally dark by the time they’re finished, and Dean’s looking sideways at Castiel like he’s up to something.

“What?” Castiel asks suspiciously.

Dean bites his lip. “Bundle up, okay? Thermals, heavy socks, the dry boots. I’ll walk you to the outhouse.”

“Be still my heart,” Castiel teases. “So romantic.”

“Shut up and change, sugar.”

***

The outhouse turns out to be a bit of a walk, up the hill and tucked into the side of a clearing. Dean makes him wear two blankets wrapped snugly over Dean’s heavy jacket (since Castiel’s is still drying by the stove), but it’s well worth it. They both take turns, and Castiel will never, ever admit how unbelievably nice being able to use an _actual_ toilet is, and he’s never, ever, _ever_ going to take having access to one for granted again. A little hot water and he’d be hard-pressed to think of anything else in the world he could want. _Maybe some lube,_ he muses, thinking back on their earlier conversation with a half-smile on his face.

While Dean takes his turn, Castiel sits in the middle of the clearing and admires the stars. The more it darkens, the brighter they become, and the tableau is truly breathtaking. As Dean enters his peripheral vision, the sky begins to change. Streaks of green and blue start appearing, shimmering and sifting across the patch of sky above the clearing. Dean sits down next to him and snuggles under the blanket, holding Castiel’s body tight against his own.

“What do you think?” Dean’s voice is low and husky as he whispers in Castiel’s ear.

“It’s incredible,” Castiel murmurs, his eyes locked onto the changing panorama, where shades of pink and purple have started appearing alongside the green, wisping and stretching and drifting slowly across the dark sky like neon steam. It’s one of the most unreal, amazing things Castiel has ever laid eyes on. “More beautiful than I could have imagined.”

“Yea,” Dean breathes, his breath hot on Castiel’s neck, “So much more beautiful.” Castiel turns his head and finds Dean focused intently on him, not the sky. Dean’s bright green eyes flick down to his lips briefly, seemingly prompting him to lick his own, and Castiel suddenly has no interest in the phenomenon raging above their heads. The northern lights are bright, but they’ve got nothing on Dean.

 

 

“Take me home, Dean,” he whispers, and Dean nods, his eyelids hooded and heavy.

“Yea,” he replies, taking Castiel’s hand and dragging him to his feet. They stand there for a moment, pressed tight together and just looking at each other, and then Dean leans in to kiss him. It could be a scene straight out of a movie or a fairytale novel as far as Castiel is concerned, everything is so damn close to perfect. Dean’s mouth is sweet and gentle; his kisses wanting but not demanding. The pads of his fingers are soft where they brush the side of Castiel’s neck, just barely holding him in place. His body is hard in all the right ways, the feel of him pressed up against Castiel’s own from shoulders to hips to knees is like a key slipping into a lock, if the lock were on fire, completely consumed with happiness and desire. Castiel’s hardly coherent as he wonders why the hell they’re still outside.

The only small, nagging concern comes when Dean grabs his hand to lead him back to the cabin. Dean’s busy navigating the route back by flashlight and fails to notice Castiel’s wince from taking his right hand. His arm really does hurt, perhaps even a bit more than it had earlier, but Castiel is not about to let a little ache get in the way of having Dean. His arm will still be there later- and orgasm endorphins are supposed to be natural pain relievers, right? _Completely logical,_ Castiel reassures himself. _Resourceful, even._ He rolls his eyes internally, not even able to convince himself that this plan is his most responsible idea ever, but what can it hurt, really? They’re here for the night, so they might as well enjoy themselves.

The aching pain in his arm fades into the distant background when Dean lays him out on their bed. Like the caretaker he is, Dean’s already stoked the fire in the woodstove back to a roaring flame, and the cabin is extremely toasty. They’d stripped standing face-to-face in front of each other, discarding clothing and looking at each other openly, all of it done quickly and quietly without shame or embarrassment. They’ve been naked together enough times now, more often out of necessity than for anything overtly sexual, but still enough that this isn’t _new,_ that it has a sort of comfortable familiarity. And beyond that, all of the various states of vulnerability, pain, and distress have torn down barriers that might have otherwise stayed up for years. Especially when it comes to Dean. For Castiel’s part, he’s never been anything but an open book to the man in front of him, but that just isn’t in Dean’s nature. He doesn’t let down his guard, doesn’t let people in- but here Castiel is. Here they both are, and Dean’s looking at him like he holds the keys to the universe. Like he’s never thought twice about being exactly what Castiel needs.

And because of that, the swell in Castiel’s chest that’s becoming familiar now, at least where Dean’s concerned, comes back full force, and it’s accompanied by a raging fire in his veins and thick, determined heat pooling in his belly. Dean’s warm where Castiel’s hands slide over his skin, the muscles in his shoulders and back flexing and moving just beneath. Castiel’s never felt so alive- so _real_ and so connected with his own body, as he does when he’s like this with Dean. His breath is already coming fast as Dean trails wet kisses down his neck and over his uninjured arm. He straddles Castiel’s stomach and sits back, pulling Castiel’s hand up to his mouth and taking each finger in, one at a time. He sucks and licks and bites gently, a smirk gracing his face the entire time, and Castiel has to fight not to thrust up against his ass. 

Dean seems determined to get his mouth on every inch of Castiel’s skin that he can, so it’s not long before Castiel’s chest is heaving and Dean is nipping at the insides of his thighs. And then Dean’s again swallowing him down, slurping enthusiastically, like he can’t get enough of having his mouth all over Castiel. Castiel finds himself torn between laying back and just enjoying whatever Dean dishes out, and feeling guilty for not yet having returned the favor.

With every ounce of willpower he has left, he attempts to pull Dean up and reverse their positions, but Dean is having none of it. “Please, Dean,” Castiel pants, as Dean’s big, warm hand pushes down on his sternum and prevents him from going anywhere. Dean’s kneeling at his hip now, his cock hard and leaking where it drags over Castiel’s thigh, and from where he’s laying Castiel can just barely get his hand around it. Dean’s relentless. He doesn’t stop Castiel from touching, but he shakes his head at his protests and simply swallows around him repeatedly until Castiel’s eyes are rolling back in his head and Dean’s cock slips from his grasp. When his senses return somewhat, he goes right back to closing his fingers around and stroking Dean, the hot, velvety length of him moving satisfyingly between his fingers, but not nearly enough.

“Dean, if you’re not - If you won’t let me… please, I- I really need you, Dean,” Castiel begs, and he’s surprised to find tears leaking from his eyes, though he couldn’t begin to express why. Dean just hushes him, capturing his mouth and kissing him softly and thoroughly, as if they have all the time in the world, as if _kissing_ is the most important, the most intimate thing they could possibly be doing. Castiel could kiss Dean forever, but his body _wants,_ and with the opportunity literally in front of him as it is, he’s having trouble keeping a slow and steady pace. Instead, he finds himself pushing hands over Dean’s lower back and down to his ass, gripping cheeks to pull him in tight as he ruts against him. His legs spread unconsciously, and he’s grabbing Dean’s hand, guiding it down between them. “Please, please, Dean, please,” he finds himself whispering into Dean’s ear.

Dean soothes his free hand through Castiel’s disastrous bedhead, kissing his forehead, his eyelids, his jaw. The scent of olive oil is in the air then, and Dean’s _finally_ pushing a finger inside him. Castiel gasps, wrapping his arms around Dean’s neck as he shifts to slip his free hand behind him, splaying it in the center of Castiel’s back. He’s not sure whether the actual sensation is bad or good- it’s not pain but it’s not exactly pleasure, but what it _is,_ is Dean moving inside him, and that’s overwhelming and exciting enough to have Castiel bucking up against him and biting his ear.

“Shh,” comes Dean’s voice in his ear. “I’ve got you, baby. Look so beautiful like this. You alright?” He pulls back slightly to look Castiel in the eyes, and Castiel finds his gaze so calming, so reassuring. He nods and tips his head up to lip at Dean’s mouth.

“More,” he insists, “I’m alright, Dean. I want you inside me, please, give me more.”

Dean smiles and kisses the corner of his mouth. “Relax. Let me take care of you, sweetheart. Alright?” Castiel nods slowly, letting his eyes drift shut as Dean adds more fingers and opens him up slowly, sweetly. He’s so patient, so calm, so careful, and the sensations are easy to get lost in. Before, when he’d done this, the prep was minimal and mechanical. The actual sex was, like the other activities he’d engaged in, just fine. The sensations had been interesting, in an abstract, “I suppose I can see how other people might enjoy this,” sort of way, and the event had ended with him achieving release. But the man he’d been with might as well have been faceless. His touches, his words, his grunts of pleasure- they’d been grating, if anything. Foreign and awkward. Castiel hadn’t regretted the experience then, not really, and he doesn’t regret it now - because it’s that memory that proves to him beyond a doubt that Dean is special. That Dean is his exception. 

Comparing the two feels like the moment in that movie _Pleasantville_ where everything turns to color, and only then can the stark bleakness of a black and white existence even be fully understood.

And Dean’s fingers inside him, Dean’s palm on his back, Dean’s cock in his hand- those things aren’t just color - they’re _fireworks._ And when Dean finally kneels between his legs and pushes inside, those fireworks turn into a Fourth of July Grand Finale _explosion_ . Castiel knows that he’s a mess, writhing and moaning underneath Dean, his skin slick where their chests slide together, his hands scrabbling for purchase over Dean’s body, settling in his hair and over his ass, but he’s not sorry, he’s not ashamed. Plus, Dean’s beyond encouraging, telling Castiel repeatedly to _“Let me hear it, baby, that’s it, fuck yes, Cas, let me hear those pretty noises,”_ as he fucks him slow and deep. 

It seems like an eternity and only moments before Dean’s got his cock in hand, tugging firmly with practiced flicks of his wrist that make precum burst and Castiel cry out as his overstimulated body rockets towards the finish line. He’s beyond coherent words now, so all he can do is hope that Dean is anywhere near as close to coming as he is when his body starts seizing up. Dean working his cock while moving inside him, hitting that sweet, electric spot with every other thrust has Castiel coming harder than he ever has in his life, harder than he even knew was possible, his vision whiting out completely for several seconds and his body shaking like a leaf.

When he comes back to himself, Dean is collapsed on top of him, and he’s still a bit shaky himself as he pants in Castiel’s ear. His breathing slows then, stabilizing and returning to normal as Dean draws back and drags a hand over Castiel’s forehead, pushing back the sweaty hair that’s stuck there.

They stare at each other for several moments, mouths slightly open. Castiel licks his lips and clears his throat, gathering his courage to ask, “Was… was that alright? I know… I may need some practice.”

Dean barks out an incredulous laugh that startles Castiel. “Cas, what the fuck,” he mutters, dropping his head to Castiel’s shoulder.

“Oh,” Castiel says, his face flushing from embarrassment. “That bad?”

“NO,” Dean groans loudly into his skin before pushing back up again. “It was perfect, sweetheart. Just like you.” Castiel lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, secretly filled with relief and pleasure at the knowledge that he was able to satisfy Dean. He smiles and squeezes Dean’s hip.

“I wouldn’t say no to some more practice though,” Dean continues with a wink. “You know, just to be sure we’re as good at this as I think we are. Next time though, it’s my turn to get fucked. Shit, Cas, I’ve never been with someone that made me wonder if I was missing out by being on top, but here we fucking are.” Castiel flushes again, this time for an entirely different reason.

“I- well, I very much enjoyed myself, as well,” he says shyly.

Dean wiggles his eyebrows. “I could tell,” he grins, and Castiel smacks him with one of their makeshift pillows, making him laugh. Dean rolls over then and stretches as he stands. Castiel can’t help but notice and admire the red marks crisscrossing Dean’s back from his own nails, and if he’s being honest, he’s still a bit floored by his own apparent capacity for passion and lust. He’s definitely on board with Dean’s _“do it again”_ plans.

But all the same, he’s getting pretty tired. His brain feels a little foggy, and that’s probably better off than he should be right now, all things considered. He feels his eyelids getting heavy, and it’s _really_ hard to fight their closing, so he gives in. Something in the back of his mind is once again doing its best to set off alarm bells at _how_ tired Castiel abruptly is, combined with his apparent sudden inability to stay awake even until Dean returns to the bed, but he’s honestly too exhausted to focus on all of that. He’ll figure it out in the morning. Distantly, he thinks he can hear Dean calling his name, but that can’t be right- Dean’s right next to him, he’d be able to hear him just fine if he were talking. _It’s nice to finally be warm,_ Castiel thinks, as he drifts into the blackness. _If only that pain in my arm would go away, then I’d really be comfortable._ He’s too tired to dwell on the pain though, and so he lets it fade away, like everything else surrounding him, until there’s only blackness, only dark. And he sleeps.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A heartfelt thank you to the actual best readers on the planet, you guys leave the best comments and encouragement and I appreciate and love every one of you. Thank you so much.
> 
> P.S. if that version of the artwork is too big for mobile, there's a smaller one in Chapter 11. :)


	8. Bobby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bobby and Sam take matters into their own hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief POV switch for necessary reasons - Cas will return next chapter. I hope you guys enjoy this little interlude, and that it answers some questions/provides some more background for Dean. There's still some major story to be told after this, so hang on. :-D Also please be gentle on my Bobby, I've never written more than a sentence or so for him before. *hides*
> 
> Edit: it has occurred to me that people might think “Slaven’s Roadhouse” is a play on Harvelle’s- it’s not. It’s real! And so is Coal Creek! You can read about the roadhouse here:  
> [Slaven’s Roadhouse Alaska](https://www.nps.gov/yuch/learn/historyculture/slavensroadhouse.htm)

Singer Salvage is the kind of place no one shows up to if they don’t have a good reason to be there _and_ a practiced, condensed speech prepared to blurt out regarding what exactly that reason is during the five seconds Bobby’s door predictably opens and slams shut again. Bobby’s not unpopular or even anti-social, he’s just set in his ways, and that includes being the opposite of interested in any small talk or bullshit.

Bobby’s been Salcha’s only mechanic (and the only _decent_ mechanic for three more towns in any direction) for near thirty years now, and if you really need his services, he figures his bristly attitude ain’t gonna put you off. If it does, you probably didn’t need him that badly. Considering the folks who live in rural Alaska are pretty much known for being self-sufficient _doers_ whose literal survival might depend on possessing the basic ability to fix or at least limp along any vehicle they might be operating, Bobby’s had to be pretty special to make a living off of doing what he does. Not that he’d ever admit it or let someone say it to his face without knocking their head sideways, but he’s proud of his shop, and his reputation.

And he’s not afraid to use it to get the things that he needs. Most of the time, that’s stuff like a supply of decent whiskey to tide him over until he gets up the energy to make the two-hour drive to the nearest store. Ellen’s always been good for trading alcohol or a hot meal for mechanic work, and Bobby’s never been one to complain. He’s stepping up his game now, though. Trading for alcohol, parts and owed favors that amount to “you drive us into town this time, ya idjit,” is one thing, but bartering for interference in a Federal investigation… that’s a whole ‘nother level.

If it had been anyone but Dean, he wouldn’t have bothered. Well, Dean and Sam, of course- most days, anyway - ‘cept the past few where the kid’s been _this fucking close_ to grating on Bobby’s last good nerve. Sam means well, and he’s the reason they’re even able to track Dean at all, but there’s a goddamn reason Bobby booted his ass out of town the minute he turned eighteen. Sam doesn’t belong up here, he’s found his corner of the world with the hippies and pressed-suit-wanna-bes down in southern California, and Bobby couldn’t be happier for him. But that’s also where Bobby likes him,  in southern California- not pacing back and forth so rough he’s wearing a tread in the carpet, like some kind of meth-head looking for a fix. His hair products alone take up more space in Bobby’s bathroom than Bobby’s replenished liquor collection takes up in the cabinets downstairs. And how’s he supposed to focus on undermining the American government if Sam and his man-bun won’t sit the fuck down and relax, already?

“Boy, if you don’t knock that the hell off, I’m going to chain you outside with Rumsfeld.”

Sam has the decency to look sheepish, wiping his hands down the front of his pants as he finally sinks down onto the worn-in couch that’s at least as old as he is. “Sorry, Bobby,” he says, and Bobby grunts, because the kid does look it. _S’not his fault he’s anxious,_ Bobby reminds himself. _You’d probably be the same right now if you weren’t such a jaded old prick._

“Alright, listen,” he starts. Sam sits forward on the couch a little too quickly, and Bobby shoots him a warning glare. After Sam’s put up his hands and settled back again, he continues. “Ash put in a bid with the FAA for his company to grab one of the new search routes and he got it. That asshole Roman that’s heading this thing’s got no idea who he really is.” Sam nods, with him so far. “They should be gearing up now, be out to that first location that pinged by early afternoon.” The search for Dean’s plane was officially expanding today, _finally_ , after the FAA’s insistence that they stick to searching the original flight path for a full forty-eight hours after the thing was declared missing, and unfortunately, the route from Alaska to San Jose left a _lot_ of ground to cover.

That was no big deal for the first thirty-six hours or so, but now every minute they aren’t acting feels wasted. The reason Bobby’s so heated about the FAA’s refusal to listen to him and deviate from their original search is because, thanks to Sam, he knows for a _fact_ that the lost plane isn’t anywhere near where they’re looking. Sam had only figured it out late last night, but Bobby had immediately called the number for the FAA they’d been given, waiting on hold for over an hour to speak to Dick Roman. But the lead investigator had blown him off and when Bobby had offered to simply drive up there and hike or four-wheel out to the location himself, that douchebag had the nerve to imply that perhaps _Bobby_ was a little too “in the know” about where the plane was, and that it might not be a good thing for him to be so “involved.” 

Now, Bobby knows he’s a paranoid motherfucker, but he’s also been around long enough to recognize a threat when he hears one. So instead of provoking Roman, he’d enlisted Ash, and his fleet of planes and helicopters. Ash could go on out with _Dick’s_ blessing, and if he deviates from the FAA’s technical flight plan to check out the GPS location Sam retrieved, well, who’s going to question the hero that found the lost plane? Bobby’s gonna be servicing his car _and_ the fleet of ATVs Ash has from now until eternity, but he still thinks he’s getting the better deal.

 _Shouldn’t even need to make a damn deal,_ Bobby thinks angrily. _All thanks to Dick fucking Roman. The hell is he up to?_ Bobby’d like to think _Dick_ is just a lazy, entitled asshole, but something about him is just pinging his radar. The guy is scummy, has the sort of handshake you expect to pull away from oily. And anyway, Bobby might be a loner, might even fit the definition of recluse these days, but that don’t mean he’s lost all of his brain cells. How come it took the airlines and the FAA so damn long to realize an entire plane and everyone on it had disappeared out of the damn sky?

Hell, Bobby’s just a regular old fart civilian and he hadn’t needed more than ten minutes past Dean’s estimated arrival time to start getting his worry on. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that something was up when Dean didn’t call to let him know he’d gotten off the plane safely. Knowing that boy and his flying anxiety, he was actually surprised Dean hadn’t called to be talked off a ledge before the plane had taken off. A couple short text messages (and a string of swear words, _who can fucking type with these tiny keys_ ) between them had been enough to explain what happened there, but Dean had swore to call the second he touched down in San Jose, said it would give him something to focus on and look forward to. 

As far as Bobby was concerned, it sounded like Dean was _focusing_ just fine- probably blowing off some steam inappropriately in a public bathroom (not the first time), with the hot young thing he’d stumbled upon in the airport, according to his texts. Bobby had just been glad _he_ wasn’t responsible for the pep talk and that Dean had found a coping mechanism that worked, however irresponsible (not his business) it was. He just hoped his next call from Dean would still be checking in from San Jose via cellphone, and not a collect call from the Fairbanks State Police station.

Not the least of reasons being, Bobby was ready to have his own goddamn space for a while. His old log cabin was spacious enough, with three bedrooms and the enormous attached garage for his work, and Dean was a hell of a lot less intrusive and in-your-face than Sam, but Bobby was done raising kids. While he loved those two knuckleheads like his own, Dean and Sam needed to do their own thing, needed to go figure out who they were beyond their father and this shithole of a town, and Bobby needed space, for... stuff. Manly, hunting, fishing, car stuff. Definitely not so that he could attempt to cook a romantic, homemade meal for Ellen without anyone breathing over his shoulder and mocking his inevitable failures in life and love and table-setting. You know. Guy things.

Anyway, when Dean hadn’t called or texted, Bobby had been quick to call the airline for an update. For an hour or so after the flight’s allotted landing time, he’d alternated between sitting on hold and being told, _“There’s no available update at this time.”_ Turns out, that shit is Airline code for, “We lost an entire fucking plane and don’t want to admit it.”

Eventually, those incompetent fools did admit it, and things had gotten frantic after that. Bobby had tolerated being transferred ten or so more times before slamming his landline down and dialing Sam. It was then he found out that like the idjit he was, Dean hadn’t even told Sam he was _coming,_ so he also had no idea something had gone wrong. Bobby filled him in on the little he knew, and Sam had gone straight down to the San Jose airport to demand information. He’d kept in contact with Bobby the entire time, and it became really clear really quickly that the airline folks were a bunch of numskulls who didn’t know a damn thing.

So Sam had flown up to Fairbanks on the next available flight, and Bobby had gotten him at the airport. By then, the plane had been declared missing and an investigation had “officially” been opened, with supposed searches in progress all up and down the west coast. Bobby was skeptical of the whole thing from the start, if he’s being honest. He didn’t like the look of _Dick Roman,_ a sleazy, slick-suited government employee from the FAA who was a former Alaskan Airlines board member. The entire situation got a big-ass side-eye from Bobby, in fact. And so he and Sam had done their own digging. It was Sam that remembered Dean’s handheld GPS, but in his rush to get to Alaska, he’d left the access info in California. Bobby knew he had it saved somewhere too, probably tucked between the pages of one of his books for safekeeping. Well, wherever it was, it was safe. Just not of any particular use to them.

So Sam had gone and done things the old-fashioned way. As much as Dean had taken care of Sam his entire life, Sam had done Dean a few solids when they were younger, as well. He’d always been a bright kid, good with technology, and without Dean’s knowledge he’d gone in and deleted every stupid citation Dean had racked up as a teenager. The cops in Salcha had a hard-on for Dean, but no one seemed to know why. Public drunkenness, petty theft, indecent exposure, speeding, operating a vehicle not fit for the road… to the casual observer it would seem that Dean was quite the miscreant, but Bobby and Sam had always known better. Every one of those encounters came from Dean trying to do something for Sam, whether it was stealing food to fill his belly while John was off on some hunting trip, or trying to get the beat-up junker that was their only means of transportation over to Bobby’s to be fixed up. Everything, _every damn thing_ Dean had done was with Sam in mind.

And though Bobby had always known that John wasn’t the _best_ father (a point of contention between the old friends that had resulted in fists being thrown more than once), it was Dean’s arrest over the shitty car that had opened Bobby’s eyes to the nightmare Dean’s life especially had become. Dean had broken down in front of him at the police station, distraught about being arrested and the car being impounded, sure that John was going to “ruin him,” over it. He’d been so out of sorts that he’d confessed to a few other things (desperate, sad as fuck things) he’d done in the name of taking care of Sam that Bobby would never bring up again for both of their sakes, but those confessions cemented his decision to take the boys into his own home permanently that night, John’s opinion be damned. When Sam had shown him what he was able to do with a computer and the internet, Bobby hadn’t even raised an eyebrow. Neither of them had ever admitted to Dean that they knew exactly how those records had come to “disappear,” and why the police had never followed up with a court date.

So with that in mind, it was no surprise to Bobby that Sam didn’t need some stupid login info to get into Dean’s GPS account, though the alternate way in took a hell of a lot longer.  Not that Bobby’s home was equipped for yuppie shit like internet access, but Sam had brought something called a “wireless hotspot” and gone to town. _Whatever works. Least I don’t gotta change with the times,_ he thought with satisfaction.

Regardless of method, they’d soon had proof that Dean was alive. Not that Bobby had any doubt, the kid was a survivor, had been since childhood. He’d scraped and scrapped his way through situations that would have brought lesser men to their knees. Not Dean, though. Dean always found a way to keep going. And as he stared over Sam’s shoulder in relief at the blinking dot that proved, against all odds, Dean had done it again, Bobby vowed that he wouldn’t be the one to let Dean down this time. Dean deserved so much better than the shit hand he’d been dealt, not the least of which was a father who’d go to the ends of the earth to keep him safe. 

Bobby’d always wanted to be that for Dean (and Sam, of course), but by the time he’d taken the brothers in, the oldest had been practically a man, and so used to keeping his own self afloat that it was second nature to him to continue to do so. Bobby had done what he could - put food on the table and a reliable roof over their heads, warm clothes on their backs. But Dean had simply found new ways to be independent, using this fresh start and safe home base as a way to save up for a more reliable car, which led to better paying jobs and a savings account for Sam’s education. Looking at that blinking dot on the screen, Bobby couldn’t help but feel like seeing Dean stranded out there all alone was some kind of fucked up metaphor for his entire life. And sure as shit, Dean’s got to be out there planning how to get home without expecting help from anyone else.

 _Not this time, boy,_ Bobby swears. _This time, we’re coming for you, Dean. I’m coming for you, son. I won’t let you down. Not again. You just show us where you are, and we’ll bring you home._

***

Bobby cracks his knuckles as he stands in the hangar and listens to Ash’s recount of his recon trip. He’d called over the radio on his way back and asked Bobby and Sam to meet him at his hangar to talk about what he’d found. As expected, he’d found the plane. In shitty-ass, burned out condition, but he’d found it. When Ash described the scene and mentioned that he was glad Dean had activated his GPS otherwise he would have probably thought him a goner, Sam had looked as relieved as Bobby felt, checking the GPS account again for validation that Dean had indeed survived. Problem was, there was nowhere safe for Ash to land his little plane nearby, forcing him to turn around and change modes of transportation. His helicopter was fueling as they spoke, and Ash promised he’d be out and back tonight, unless the impending snow storm rolled in faster than expected.

“Well get your ass moving then, Ash, we ain’t got all day. You wanna be the one responsible for leaving Dean out there in a snowstorm with no way to protect himself?” Bobby knows he’s being harsh, but he’s had about enough of all this, and the FAA’s games. If Dick Roman weren’t such a bag of dicks, they’d already have had a helicopter out there and back by now. Instead, the FAA’s instructions were for Ash to do exactly what he’s doing, since they didn’t want to risk sending more resources out tonight with the impending storm. They hadn’t said it outright, but the underlying message was clear: We’re not endangering more people for a bunch of dead ones.

Bobby kicks a coke can that’s littering the floor with more force than necessary. It pops up off the ground and hits Ash in the head. He doesn’t react, except to tilt his head.

“Yo, not cool, man,” Ash says, finger pointed at Bobby. “I know you’re pissed, an’ you got every right to be. But I’m on your side. I like Dean, and fuck this Roman asshole for not listening to you. We’re gonna get his ass home nice and safe. But you gotta trust Dean too, my dude is a survivalist. He’s probably cozied up in an igloo right now, listening to some Zep on a radio he made out of some sticks and shoelaces.”

Bobby scowls but nods tersely.

Ash claps him on the shoulder as he passes. “‘Copter’s ready. Wait here for us.”

***

They pass the time standing outside the hangar and drinking beers pulled out of a cooler permanently stashed in the back of Bobby’s truck. Sam downs quite a few more than he normally would, not that Bobby’s been around him often enough in the last few years to know his drinking habits, ‘sides holidays. They both realize before Ash calls it in that Dean’s not coming home tonight.

“Fucking Alaskan weather,” Sam curses. “Forgot how it is up here.”

Bobby just nods, too irritated to make small talk, even with Sam. He should have started driving the minute Sam grabbed those coordinates, but he didn’t, and now they’re all gonna be paralyzed for maybe even a full day. _Goddamn, when did I get so useless?_ In a fit of frustration, he turns and hurls his mostly-empty beer bottle at the side of the hangar, making it burst and shatter all over the place. He doesn’t meet Sam’s eye, just goes to retrieve a dustpan and brush before Ash gets back and tries to make him talk about his feelings. The snow ends up covering the finer pieces of glass, and Ash doesn’t say a thing. Sam keeps his mouth shut, for once in his life.

***

Things don’t start to go any more smoothly after that. Sam’s got alerts set for Dean’s GPS, they ping his phone anytime Dean checks in. Because of that, they know Dean’s moving away from the plane, seemingly in a north, slightly northeast direction. Sam’s concerned though. He surmises that Dean’s only keeping the GPS on for very short periods of time in order to hopefully prolong the battery life. The problem with that is, his location isn’t registering exactly each time he does, perhaps because he’s turning the machine off before it can fully upload to the server. And as such, they’re only getting a range and not a pinpoint location, the way they had with the plane. To top it all off the storm is bad, and worse over the Yukon-Charley Preserve where Dean is, so Ash isn’t able to get back out there for almost twenty-four hours.

The good news is, that twenty-four hours gives the FAA time to mobilize. Ash tells Sam and Bobby that he’d barely landed when a fleet of helicopters showed up behind him, turning the site of the crash effectively into a crime scene, and beginning the hands-on investigation into what had gone wrong. Before anyone could take notice and realize that he probably shouldn’t be there, Ash was able to get inside the plane and take some photos. He finds a note on the cockpit door with a message and two seat-assigned tickets - one of them belonging to Dean. He also finds what appears to be a campsite near the plane, complete with a burned out fire pit and signs that a tent was pitched. He documents everything carefully in photos and emails them to Sam.

“2 ALIVE,” the message on the door says, and Bobby’s heart soars when he sees the numbers, recognizing them and cottoning on to Dean’s plan immediately. His temporary relief is short-lived, though, when he gets a call from Dick Roman offering his condolences for his loss.

“Excuse me?” The short phrase is all he can spit out in his rage and confusion. “Dean is alive, and someone else is too. You’ve got proof right there on the plane,” he says.

Dick goes on to patronizingly explain that there are no tracks in the snow away from the crash, and no indication that anyone has left. He tells Bobby that they’ll have to extract, transport and identify all of the bodies before they can make any kind of assumption that someone is missing.

“It doesn’t make any sense to me,” Roman drawls, “That someone would _leave_ the site of a crash and wander off into the wild. Seems like _if_ that happened, it would be because of a head injury or an illness that was impairing their judgment.” He argues that the scrawled numbers are hardly legible, and that Bobby can’t be sure they’re coordinates at all, that “2 ALIVE” doesn’t necessarily mean they’re _still_ alive now. Bobby has to threaten legal action to even get the man to agree to a cursory air search of the area, but he does manage to blackball him into it. Two planes go out and search the entire valley (supposedly), returning empty-handed, which only serves to increase Roman’s smug demeanor. Bobby’s incredulous, confused as to what motivation he could have to be acting this way, but in the end he decides that it doesn’t matter.

He hangs up on Roman for the last time and turns to Sam and Ash. “Fuck that guy,” he says. “Pack it up, we’re going to the Roadhouse.”

***

There are two ways to get to Slaven’s Roadhouse; by plane, or by boat. Bobby’s always preferred going by boat. Not that he’s anywhere near as bad as Dean when it comes to flying, but no one in their right mind wouldn’t be at least a little nervous about landing an airplane the size of a toy on a tiny strip of badly trodden dirt on the top of a mountain that might or might not be washed out, uneven, or too goddamn short. Which is why Bobby, being of reasonably sound mind, prefers the boats. Or an ATV. Or Santa’s goddamn sleigh. The fact that he’s on one of these godforsaken flying death traps at all is a testament to how he feels about Dean. 

In the end, he and Sam had decided that they’d better split up and cover both routes. Seven losing games of rock, paper, scissors later, Bobby had begrudgingly agreed to let Ash would drop him off via the Airstrip and then go on to canvas the area from above. Meanwhile, Sam would take a boat directly to Slaven’s and wait there, so that no matter what route Dean ended up taking, he’d find one of them. Bobby’s money is on Dean coming through Coal Creek, though.

Before leaving, he’d dug the pair of satellite phones out of storage that Ellen had given him as a gift two years ago, and miraculously they still seemed to work. He’d maybe felt a little guilty for leaving them in his backseat all the times he went up to the Roadhouse alone to do some fishing, but what was going to happen to him, really? He figured if he fell in the river or somehow ended up freezing to death that it was probably his time, he’d had a decent run. Anyway, he was sure thanking Ellen now. The Preserve didn’t have cell service almost anywhere, but Sat phones worked great, no matter what part of it you were in. Plus Ash had loaded them each down with a VHF radio and one PLB*, all from his own supply. At this rate, Ash was gonna be keeping Bobby from his own funeral to cash in on his earned oil changes, but it was worth it- Bobby and Sam had two ways to communicate with each other, a way to communicate with Ash, and a way to contact emergency services (if needed) when they found Dean.

Bobby’d done his best not to vomit as Ash brought the little plane to a stop on the Airstrip, stumbling out and waving Ash off as he heaved over the side of the ridge they were on. Seeing the drop off that was only steps from the edge of the runway only served to make him even more queasy, though. He hadn’t given Ash’s plane a second look as he’d took off, heading down the familiar path and into Coal Creek Camp.

He’d set up at the public access cabin, making sure to keep the fire going just in case the trail of smoke might serve as a signal or guide to Dean somehow. But Dean didn’t come. He checked in with Sam, he checked in with Ash, but there was no sign of Dean, no sign of the other supposed survivor from the message, and repeat searches of both the air and waterways provided no clues. Against his better judgment and the firm belief that Dean could survive anything, Bobby had begun to have doubts. He’d used a map to plot the location of the plane against the location of Coal Creek and estimated the time it would take Dean to walk it. Knowing Dean and his determination, paired with his familiarity in hiking in the Alaskan wilderness, he should have arrived by now. Bobby does consider that perhaps he’d been forced to take a different route for some reason, perhaps the planes aren’t even looking in the right areas, perhaps Dean is injured or ill, and therefore slower than usual. But as another day drags on with no sign of Dean, Bobby begins to worry.

Which leads him to decide that it’s time he and Sam have a discussion about strategy and reality. He contemplates calling him on the Sat phone, but the gravity some parts of this conversation are going to require has him reluctantly packing his supplies for an overnight trip to the Roadhouse. He gathers some extra wood and stokes the fire before leaving, pushing a couple MREs into the cabinets too, _just in case._ He does give Sam a call then, because one of them missing is enough, and Sam doesn’t need the stress of having Bobby walking in on him unexpected when there should be no one else around for miles. Halfway through his walk to the Roadhouse, it occurs to Bobby that it might have been smarter to have Sam come to him, but ultimately, he’s not sure what’s going to happen after their talk, and the Roadhouse _is_ where Dean said he was headed. It’s strange, as he’s walking he _almost_ imagines he can hear Dean’s voice calling out, but he chalks it up to wishful thinking or a trick of the wind.

Sam looks glad to see him when he opens the door, and their conversation goes about the way Bobby expected it would. Sam’s always been the logical, realistic brother, Dean’s the emotional one- no matter what _he_ says. Bobby wonders if he should try and stop thinking about Dean in present tense, as a way to prepare himself for the worst. Not that he’s actually _thinking_ the worst, no way, but the possibility refuses to stop hovering there in the back of his mind. Sam doesn’t need this, shouldn’t have to shoulder this burden. Bobby decides on his own that he’ll send him back to civilization tomorrow, and he’ll man the Roadhouse for as long as it takes. Something will turn up, and hopefully that something will be Dean. _Or the bodies on the plane will be identified and Ash will call to say that Roman was right,_ his brain contributes unhelpfully.

 _That’s not going to happen,_ he scolds himself. _Don’t think like that, ya idjit._ He could get an ATV out here, he thinks. Try and do his own ground-recon. It would be _something_ , and something sounds a hell of a lot better than sitting here on his ass doing nothing. He’ll call Ash tomorrow and see what can be done about getting a machine out. Maybe Ash would sit at the Roadhouse for awhile, just in case. _Just in case._

In the meantime, he and Sam share dinner and then sit around the campfire out back of the cabin. They don’t talk much, and the lack of inane chatter from the younger Winchester suddenly feels sad and wrong. He’s used to battling a constant low-level hum of affectionate annoyance at Sam’s endless babbling, and he’s surprised to find that he misses it. He wonders what will happen to him and Sam, if Dean doesn’t come home. Dean is the glue, he always has been, and without him… Bobby shakes off his own morbid train of thought in favor of throwing another log on the fire. 

The movement startles Sam out of his own reverie, and he looks up at Bobby apologetically, the same kicked-puppy look on his face that he’d had back when he was thirteen and accidentally threw a baseball smack into the brand-new windshield of a car Dean had been restoring for Bobby. For a moment, Sam looks like a little boy again, all dressed up in dad’s clothes but no idea what to do in them. His man bun is replaced with sloppily hacked bangs, his gargantuan arms and legs are kid-sized and tucked up against him, making him look small and vulnerable, and he’s watching the treeline, waiting for his big brother to come strolling out to kick his ass. Bobby blinks and the Sam of today is back, but he’s still got that look on his face.

Before he can say anything (not that he knows what to say), Sam stands and announces he’s going to hit the hay. Bobby doesn’t stop him, just claps his arm as he goes by, and hopes that Sam gets the message. He hangs out a while longer around the fire before joining Sam inside. They make sure to leave lights on, even though it’s harder to sleep, just in case. _Just in case._

***

Some time not too far from dawn, Bobby jolts awake. He can’t put his finger on it, but something just doesn’t feel right. He grabs his shotgun and the Sat phone, and does a quick check of the inside of the cabin before heading outside. Everything seems to be as he’d left it when he’d passed out, but he figures he’ll do a quick perimeter check. Make sure their food is secured in the bear-proof bin, and all that crap. It’s close enough to dawn, judging by the cracks of light poking through the dark sky, that he gives Ellen a ring, and as expected she’s up too. They shoot the shit for a little bit, and she offers to come down to the Roadhouse to keep him company. Bobby scoffs and tells her he wouldn’t want her to close up her own Roadhouse for that, but she sees through him, a fact that if he’d been a younger man, would have irritated the hell out of him. As it is, he’s just glad to have Ellen around. In fact, he’s about to come halfway and tell her that a visit wouldn’t be the worst thing on the planet, when he hears a noise coming from the treeline.

It’s faint, but getting louder- there’s something akin to heavy footsteps crunching brush, ice and dirt underfoot without caution, but there’s also a strange dragging sound alongside it.

“I’m gonna have to call ya back, Elle,” he says quietly, ending the call as Ellen’s confused voice still drifts from the receiver. He leaves the phone on the bench he’d been sitting on and raises the shotgun to sight it. He knows better than to get any closer, maybe whatever it is will see the lights and take off, and he won’t have to deal with it at all. The lights themselves illuminate the clearing well enough that if the thing _does_ keep coming, Bobby should be able to see it as soon as it leaves the cover of the trees. Whatever it is, it sounds big, and like it’s dragging something with it. Could be a bear with a fresh kill, and if that’s the case - Bobby doesn’t wanna be anywhere near it. And yet… something’s keeping him from retreating inside the safety of the cabin.

When Dean stumbles through the treeline moments later, Bobby’s so shocked and filled with conflicting emotions that he almost shoots him. Gathering his senses, he tosses the shotgun and runs towards Dean, who is clearly in terrible shape. He’s barely putting one foot in front of the other, and Bobby can see his lips form his own name as he gets close, but no sound comes out. With a wave of deja vu and a flashback to his vision of “young Sam” hours earlier, it’s suddenly not an almost-thirty-year-old Dean collapsing into his arms, but an eight year old one. An exhausted, tearful little boy sporting a similar split and bleeding lip, bruises under his eyes, and a defeated look of failure written all over his face. Bobby had shown up to “watch” Dean while John went to be with Sam in the hospital after he’d broken his arm jumping off their woodshed. He remembers going from confused, thinking Dean had also fallen off the roof, to a raging, blinding anger in about ten seconds flat when Dean had miserably relayed that this was his _“punishment, fo’ not lookin’ out fo’ Sammy like Dad tol’ me,”_ sniffling and snottily adding that he thought he deserved much worse, and that he might get it anyway when his father got home from the hospital.

Bobby had reigned in his emotions then, and he tries to do the same now, but the similarities in Dean’s face are striking and painful. Bobby struggles to understand what could have put that particular look back on his face _now_ , but he doubts it’ll be something that can be dealt with by tucking Dean into bed with hot chocolate and a story, _or_ a re-enactment of the far more satisfying wordless conversation he’d had with John later that night. As he’d held John’s bloodied face and bruised body off the ground by his collar, braced against the side of the house both of his young boys were tucked safely asleep inside, he’d ground out a very explicit warning. In the hopes that it would be enough to never see Dean’s face looking like that again, he’d told John that he was prepared to replicate any and every mark John dared put on son’s body on John’s own. To his knowledge, the warning took.

Point being, he’d recognize this look on Dean anywhere. This is Dean at his lowest, and Bobby’s wholly unprepared to see it. Something’s made this boy feel like he’s some kind of abject failure, and on top of that, his body seems like it’s about to give out completely. Dean looks like he’s trying to say something, but he can’t make the words come out.

“SAM! SAM!” Sam’s quality of sleep must have been about as good as Bobby’s because it’s not even two minutes later that he’s stumbling out the front door of the cabin. “Water!” Bobby barks at him, and he can see Sam’s eyes go wide even from across the clearing as he locks onto Dean in Bobby’s arms. Sam disappears, returning scarce moments later, sprinting across the frosty grass to Dean’s side. He cracks the bottle he's holding and brings it to Dean’s lips. Dean drinks greedily, and then he’s pushing the bottle away with what appears to be the strength of a baby hamster.

“Who’s this?!” Sam’s voice is alarmed, and Bobby looks up to see him gesturing at the lumpy thing Dean was pulling. It’s still partly obscured by the brush, but Bobby can see now that it’s not just some _thing_ \- there’s a person strapped to it. An apparently unconscious person.

“Cas,” Dean rasps, his arm shooting out towards the sled. “Sick… fever, s’arm, please.” His words are raspy and rough, and his eyelids are closing, clearly against Dean’s own will.

“Balls,” Bobby says.

***

Bobby gets Sam to activate the PLB _and_ call the whole thing in to the Alaskan Rescue Coordination Center. Normally, it would have been those guys manning this whole operation, if it weren’t for the goddamn FAA and Dick fucking Roman trumping their authority. If Dean dies, Bobby swears he’s taking out Dick himself. It doesn’t matter for now, though - they _have Dean,_ and apparently the second survivor too, they don’t need to go through Dick anymore. This is a straightforward rescue mission from here on out.

The National Guard ends up landing a helicopter right there in the clearing, and airlifts all four of them out of there, taking them directly to a big hospital in Fairbanks. Both Dean and the guy he was with are taken to the adjoining trauma bays, while Sam and Bobby are sidelined for information. Sam had thought to grab what appeared to be the other guy’s pack, and did find a wallet and cellphone inside. Sam apologizes to the nurse for not being more help, but explains they have no idea who the guy is. She waves him off, powering the phone on and showing him that this, _“Castiel Novak,”_ has smartly delegated an “In Case of Emergency” contact. She puts the man’s info aside for a moment and switches to registering Dean. Sam gives her all of Dean’s information without having to look it up, and then politely asks if Dean will be able to find out what happened to the man he was traveling with once he’s awake. Bobby’s impressed, the kid really does know his brother, more than Dean likely gives him credit for. He squeezes Sam’s shoulder and gives him a smile.

The next few hours go by in a blur. The FAA shows up, without Roman this time, asking questions and verifying identities. They let Bobby and Sam know that they’ll be back to speak with Dean when he’s awake, offering their hollow and insincere congratulations on bringing Dean in alive. Bobby resists the urge to expend some pent up energy in the form of a fistfight, reminding himself that Dean would probably be disappointed to wake up and find out he was in jail. He even resists snarking off a, _“no thanks to you all,”_ which he’s less sure Dean would appreciate him holding back.

The two still-unconscious men stay side-by-side in the trauma bays with nurses and doctors bustling all around them until the other one - _Carsten? Cas-something?_ Bobby can’t remember- gets pulled out and rushed up to surgery.

“Castiel,” Sam corrects him with a nudge, and Bobby realizes he’d accidentally spoken out loud.

“Weird name,” he grunts, not paying the man in the bed or his entourage much attention as they rush by.

Sam clears his throat. “I just thought… I figured I’d remember, check up on him in a bit. He doesn’t have anyone here for him, and Dean worked really hard to save his life. Plus, that’s the same name Ash found on the ticket next to Dean’s. It’s definitely him.”

Bobby nods. “You’re a good kid, Sam.”

Sam shrugs. “Just trying to do what Dean would do.”

And that gives Bobby an idea.

***

Soon enough, Dean’s admitted and moved from the ER to his own room. He’s been in and out, not awake enough to hold a conversation though, and his medical team says he likely won’t be any time soon. They also report that his preliminary labs and scans came back normal, save for some correctable dehydration and some elevated markers for stress. They suspect that Dean is mostly just completely exhausted, and needs to be pumped full of fluids and nutrients while resting as much as possible. They give him a mild sedative to keep him out and maximize his rest.

Once they’re all settled in a room, Dean’s snoring, and all the medical professionals have filed out, Bobby clears his throat and lays out his plan to Sam.

“So you wanna help me take down Dick Roman?”

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *PLB = Personal Locator Beacon, a device that when manually activated provides rescuers with exact coordinates of the location of the device. Quickest way to commence a rescue, but having the downside of no voice communications. When rescuers receive a PLB activation, they get moving right away, so this was the quickest way to mobilize a response for Dean (and Cas). Sam calling to provide more info helped them know what/who to send.


	9. After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel wakes up to find certain things not as he left them. Sam and Bobby take down Dick Roman. Dean and Castiel work on figuring out what comes next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the conclusion to the main story!! There will be an epilogue posted shortly, but I'm holding off on that because, SURPRISE, "Wild" is getting accompanying art of Dean & Cas snuggling under the Northern Lights by @winchester-reload aka @saltywords (AO3) [CHECK OUT HER ART!](http://winchester-reload.tumblr.com/)
> 
> I've probably never been more excited for anything in my entire life, and so I've decided to post the epilogue alongside the art when it's complete. So def stay tuned for those super exciting things. But in the meantime, I hope you enjoy the resolution of the main story. 
> 
> Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who followed this WIP and trusted me not to leave you hanging, some of the regular commenters here truly helped motivate me and drive the story forward when I struggled. Honestly, I wish I could put into words how much y'alls kind and excited responses mean to me. I am not exaggerating when I say that this work would not be complete today without you. So without further ado, please enjoy, and I hope this chapter lives up to the rest of the story. :) <3 Until next time.

The first time Castiel wakes, everything is lights and sounds and pain. His eyes are too blurry to focus on anything in particular, and his throat feels as if something sharp and serrated has recently been jammed down it and yanked back out. His arm and head are both screaming with pain and his stomach is roiling, threatening disquietly to spill it’s contents everywhere. He knows he needs to move, but when he tries to sit up he finds that he can’t. Words that make sense in his head come out of his mouth half-formed grunts as he tries repeatedly to roll or lift his shoulders. Soft, gentle hands, _wrong, delicate, small_ hands press insistently down on his shoulders and the wordless, soothing murmur of a female voice drifts through his ears, an improvement over all the endless beeping. One of the hands is tapping, patting? Castiel isn’t sure, but his arm feels worse, like it’s on _fire,_ like there are a thousand bugs crawling over and eating away at it, but then all of a sudden everything miraculously, _blissfully_ , starts to fade. A sort of hot wave rolls through his body, making his aching head spin and his eyes droop, swallowing and pushing the pain into the background. And then he’s floating, his grunts tapering off into irritated sighs, his eyelids too heavy to open even if he wanted to - which he decidedly does not.

“There you go, sweetheart,” the voice says kindly in his ear, and it doesn’t make any _sense, it doesn’t make any sense at all,_ why it feels so wrong, especially those last words. Castiel reaches, but can’t quite grab hold of what’s missing. His mind is increasingly fuzzy like an old, broken TV that’s had the volume turned up, but it still replays that word, over and over: _sweetheart._ There’s warmth, safety, and comfort just outside of his grasp, but he’s too tired, too full of static to remember. _I want to remember. You said I could keep him._

***

The second time Castiel wakes, things are clearer. Not immediately of course, but it only takes a few moments of blinking and thinking for everything to come rushing back like a gale force wind. Castiel’s eyes cooperate and adjust when he silently commands them to, and he breathes a sigh of relief. Rolling his head to the left, he takes in the beeping machines, the IV pump, the drab curtains and harsh lighting. _Hospital,_ he confirms to himself, _But how?_ He turns his head where it rests on the flat hospital pillow so that he’s looking right, expecting (or at least hoping) to see Dean sitting at his bedside and being wholly unprepared for what’s occupying the space instead. Because there, perched on the edge of one of those horrendously uncomfortable plastic hospital chairs like an angry canary, is his mother.

Castiel blinks, and briefly wonders if it all had been a dream- some kind of coma-hallucination that his mind made up to help him cope. He’s heard of that, read about it in articles- coma patients apparently see some pretty wild and realistic things while they’re under. The idea is so overwhelmingly upsetting that Castiel’s about to close his eyes and will himself back under, when he spots something familiar on the floor next to his mother’s chair. They’re his boots- but not _his_ boots, they’re the extra set Dean had stolen off of some poor dead person on the plane. _Dead guy boots. Dean. It wasn’t a dream._ He’s so relieved, he almost forgets he’s about to have to interact with his mother.

 _And isn’t she exactly as expected?_ Castiel internally rolls his eyes at the scene he’s observing, and looks her over. There are three things about this picture that would give the uninformed bystander all the insight they needed regarding Naomi Novak, and they are as follows: One, there is an overstuffed, convertible “comfy chair” sitting not three feet away from the modern version of a torture chair she’s chosen, complete with a pile of untouched linen balanced on its arm. Two, despite recently flying thousands of unanticipated miles to hold vigil at the hospital bedside of her (Castiel’s guessing) gravely ill son, Naomi Novak is flawless in a pressed grey pantsuit, slicked-back bun, and carefully applied makeup. And three, she’s not even looking at Castiel, but splitting her gaze between the door and her watch.

Castiel groans, and it’s not from pain.

Briefly, he realizes he’s not actually _in_ very much pain, and that’s a pleasant discovery, though his head _does_ still feel quite muzzy, and he’s pretty sure he’s high.

“Mother,” he croaks, his voice weak and sticking in his throat, his tongue thick and feeling far too big for his mouth.

Naomi turns her head to look at him then, her gaze disapproving as she lets out a put-upon sigh. “Finally, Castiel, you’re awake.”

All business, she stands and smoothes her outfit before strolling briskly over to the wall and pressing the button that calls for a nurse. Castiel startles as a voice comes through a speaker in the wall, “Yes? Can I help you?”

“Castiel is awake,” Naomi replies, a twinge of irritation clear in her voice, though whether it’s over having to justify her request for a nurse, directed at Castiel’s failure to regain consciousness sooner, or hell, at this point Castiel wouldn’t even be surprised if she preferred him unconscious - is up for debate.

“Someone will be right in,” the disembodied voice replies. Naomi sighs again, as if she had expected someone to appear instantly in front of them, and Castiel gets the distinct feeling that his mother suspects teleportation hasn’t been invented yet in order to specifically inconvenience her. Naomi avoids making eye contact as she straightens the sheets around him, pressing the button on the side of the bed to raise the head and offering Castiel a sip of water from a styrofoam cup with the date written on it. Something seems off about those numbers, but Castiel shoves that thought aside for now. He raises his eyebrows, wanting to snark off and ask what he did to deserve such overly-affectionate mothering, but his screaming throat’s needs win out and he wraps his lips around the straw instead. The water’s lukewarm from sitting out, whatever ice it once had long melted, but it still feels like the best fucking thing Castiel’s ever had in his mouth.

He smirks around the straw a little bit, glad his mother can’t read his mind as that thought shoots through it quickly followed by another, less G-rated one. And just like that, his focus returns and the pain in his throat seems completely unimportant. He swallows, and pushes the cup down, Naomi placing it back on the overbed table without a word.  
  
“Where is Dean?” Castiel’s voice is still rough but it’s firm, and he’s surprised when his mother’s eyes flash to his own for the first time since he’s opened them.

“Dean? Dean Winchester? I would assume that he’s with his own family, recovering from this horrendous ordeal and discussing how best to move forward. In fact, it would be prudent if I met with them before we fly home- though you don’t need to be there for that- but we should all be on the same page regarding legal strategy and-”

“But _where_ is Dean? Why isn’t he here?”

Naomi’s eyes narrow, and something cold passes over her already stony face. “Why would he be here?” Her tone is icy, and she takes a step closer to Castiel that feels a lot like a threat.

Castiel bristles and clenches his teeth, grinding out a suspicious, “ _What_ did you do?”

“Honestly, Castiel,” Naomi tuts, “There is no need for dramatics. I was very polite to Mr. Winchester. I voiced my appreciation for the assistance he provided you, and wrote him a check for two thousand dollars as a thank you. He was _very_ rude to me, Castiel, I don’t know how you tolerated traveling with him.” She pauses and looks Castiel up and down as if trying to gauge his reaction so far. Castiel just spreads his hands, waiting. He considers starting a tally for each time his mother sighs as she lets out another, disappointed one. “You were unconscious for almost a week, Castiel. He’d been sleeping in your room for two full days by the time I arrived. _Sleeping!_ At your bedside. Completely inappropriate. When he refused our generous gift and insinuated he had some sort of _right_ to be here, I had no choice but to have him removed. Can you imagine? What must he have been thinking, to insert himself into your recovery that way? A virtual stranger.”

Naomi’s hardly finished her last sentence when Castiel’s pushing his way up and to the left side of his bed, the opposite side from where his mother is standing. He’s dressed only in a thin hospital gown and he’s got IVs inserted in both hands, hooked up to god knows what. There are non-skid socks on his feet though, and that’s all the encouragement Castiel needs. He plants his feet on the floor.

“Castiel? What do you think you’re doing? Lay back down this instant, don’t be ridiculous.”

Naomi’s well-manicured hand touches his shoulder, but Castiel ignores it. The IV stands drag slightly as he pulls away from them to the edge of the bed, and Castiel looks back at the far one, the one attached to his barely-visible-past-the-bandages right hand. There’s no way he’s getting up with them in, so he does the only logical thing. He rips them out. First his right hand, then his left, yanking the tape-covered catheters free from his skin and dropping the leaking tubing unceremoniously onto the bed. Both of his hands are bleeding pretty freely, but Castiel can’t care about that right now. He’s survived far worse, a little light bloodletting isn’t going to take him out today.

Naomi is yelling now, but Castiel doesn’t even bother processing her words. He saves his strength and focus for pushing to his feet, and takes stock of his limbs. His right arm is mildly sore and feels weak under the multiple layers of gauze wrapped heavily from bicep to wrist. He tries but isn’t able to use it to help him stand as it gives out under the slightest pressure. Fortunately, his left arm and the bedrail are enough, and to his mother’s chagrin, he’s up. He wavers though, unsteady on his neglected feet, and the muscles in his legs feel exactly as he suspects those of someone who laid unconscious in bed for almost a week would feel. He doesn’t straighten right away- giving himself a moment half-bent over to adjust to being upright at all.  When he does finally lift his shoulders, his head spins and a flash of heat shoots through his body. _Doesn’t matter,_ Castiel thinks.

He staggers forward and Naomi is there but not touching him, looking positively torn between being furious and horrified. He spares a moment to be pleased at that, and then promptly stumbles smack into the wall, almost losing his footing and going to the floor. He manages to catch the chair rail, and somehow keeps himself upright, dragging forward and leaving bloody streaks behind on the ugly blonde wood paneling. His vision swims in and out, but he presses on, opening the door to the hallway and emerging into what appears to be the hub of a small but busy ICU. As he opens the door, a petite female nurse comes flying around the corner and runs bodily into him, her eyes widening as she backs up slightly, her small hand curling around his bicep.

“Mr. Novak,” she says urgently, attempting to guide him into a nearby wheelchair. “Mr Novak, you’re very ill, you need to sit down.”

Castiel plants his feet and does his best not to sway. He closes his eyes for a moment, and puts a hand gently over the small one on his arm. He opens his eyes in time to see the nurse’s own widen further. He feels a bit sorry when he realizes it’s because he’s bloodied up her gloveless hand, but by the time he notices, the damage is already done. He shrugs it off. “ _Dean,”_ he demands, as firmly and commandingly as he can manage, standing there bleeding all over and with his ass half hanging out for anyone to see. “ _Where_ is Dean?”

A flash of recognition flies across the nurse’s face, and if Castiel didn’t know better, he’d say she looks almost smug when she clarifies, “Dean… do you mean Mr. Winchester? The man who saved your life?” Castiel narrows his eyes, and tilts his head, unsure as to why she would phrase her question that way. In fact, the nurse’s comments seem awfully pointed, and she’s shooting sideways looks at his mother. Naomi, for her part, is still by his side, hands on her hips, huffing and puffing and prattling on about his “continuing poor decisions.” Castiel ignores her, and raises his eyebrows at the nurse. She answers this time, but talking doesn’t stop her from continuing to work to get him to sit down. He ignores that, too. “I- I believe Mr. Winchester is still in the ICU waiting room, Mr. Novak.”

“ _Still?”_  Castiel’s tone is verging on angry now as the nurse nods, and though he’s not entirely sure why, he’s becoming increasingly uncomfortable with the way the entire ICU seems to be staring at him, and how many of them seem to be whispering loudly. There’s something going on here that he’s missing, and he hasn’t the patience for it. “The waiting room is where?”

“Mr Novak, you can’t - I can get him, if you’ll just…” The nurse’s protests are wasted on Castiel, who’s been scanning the room since he asked the question, locking onto a neon “EXIT” sign and another on the wall with an arrow declaring “ _Exit to Waiting Room.”_ He stumbles towards it, still leaving drops of blood in his wake, and increasingly exhausted with every step he takes. He’s with it enough to realize how absolutely insane he must look to anyone watching, and vaguely wonders if this little stunt will end with an involuntary stay on the inpatient psych unit. _Worries for another time._ He realizes his mother is still trailing after him (as is, apparently, the entire ICU staff) when she touches his shoulder as he reaches the outer doors to the unit.

“Castiel,” she says, her voice taking on a pleading note that Castiel isn’t sure he’s _ever_ heard come from his mother. He pauses, mostly out of the need to rest braced against the door, but Naomi doesn’t need to know that. His vision is getting increasingly swimmy, and he hopes the waiting room isn’t far outside the doors. And moreso, that Dean is actually there. “Castiel, please. Be reasonable. You don’t even know this boy, you have no idea what he wants from you,” Naomi spits desperately, before abruptly changing tactics, her voice becoming uncharacteristically soft and soothing. “You have a long recovery ahead of you, Castiel. You can’t do it alone. You’ll need caretakers, home nursing. You’ll need me. You have to come home. Whatever… whatever happened out there, it wasn’t real, you do know that, don’t you? Whatever he _did_ to you, you don’t have to... Your family, Castiel. I’m what’s real. Just stop this nonsense and come back to bed.”

Castiel turns, just enough to glance over his shoulder at his mother’s face and hold eye contact with what he hopes translates as an amused smirk. He’d laugh, if he weren’t perilously clinging to every minuscule shred of energy he has left. “Why are you so threatened by my happiness, mother?” Naomi’s mouth drops open slightly, and she looks affronted, her hand coming up to touch her chest. Castiel waves her reply off. “It doesn’t matter. You don’t have to understand. But you do need to know, that I’d rather be permanently stuck out in the wilderness with Dean, than spend one more minute alone with you.”

With that, Castiel pushes open one of the doors, the anxious and worried rumblings of the ICU staff following him as he wobbles out. Fortunately for Castiel, the doors open directly into the waiting room and there, stuffed sideways onto a ridiculously uncomfortable looking bench, is Dean. Beautiful, perfect, Dean. His eyes are closed and he looks rumpled and exhausted even in sleep, various scabbed over cuts dotting his divinely-sculpted face. Castiel shuffles forward, leaning heavily on the other chairs in the room for support. He’s fading quickly now, and knows he needs to get Dean’s attention sooner rather than later.

“Dean,” he calls out, but his voice is still weak, and the room isn’t small. “Dean,” he tries again, shuffling forward a bit more, but reaching the end of his row of support-chairs.

“DEAN!” a loud chorus of voices comes unexpectedly from behind, startling him into turning around. When he does, he’s surprised to see an assortment of ICU providers (and one stretcher) all standing and blocking the open double doors to the ICU and watching him with poorly-concealed excitement. He can’t help the smile that breaks across his face at their expectant looks, though he wonders vaguely why no one’s trying harder to get him back into bed. _Definitely something strange going on here,_ he thinks to himself, and files that away for later scrutiny.

Castiel turns back to Dean and finds him sitting bolt upright, obviously startled awake by the yelling. He blinks in sleepy confusion as he tries to process the scene in front of him, but then he locks onto Castiel and he’s up and across the room like a shot, hollering a prayer of “ _CasCasCasCas!”_ as his arms reach and his fingers flex, desperate to pull Castiel to him. Castiel lets go of the chair and tries to step closer, but the weight of everything hits him like a ton of bricks and he goes down, his abused legs flat out refusing to support him any longer. There’s a gasp and some swearing from the nurses behind him and Castiel can almost feel them rushing forward, but somehow he doesn’t hit the floor. Instead, Dean’s body slams into his side hard, Castiel’s bottom landing on Dean’s thighs as if he dove and _slid_ across the floor to catch him, and apparently that’s _exactly_ what he did. Dean’s arms wrap around him, dragging Castiel in to his chest and clutching him tight. Dean’s kissing his forehead, his cheeks, his mouth, and Castiel’s eyes are just fighting to stay open.

“Cas, you idiot, what are you doing?” Dean’s smile is so bright, his eyes shining and crinkly at the corners just the way Castiel remembered, and he’s no less beautiful in the ugly hospital lighting than he was on a mountain top, in a sun-drenched valley, and under the Northern Lights.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel slurs. He reaches up to touch Dean’s face, smiling at the familiar curve of his cheek under his fingers. He attempts to lift his head to kiss Dean’s soft mouth, and promptly passes out, the darkness tunneling in from the edges to drag him under slowly, like an old friend.

“Someone’s going to get suspended over this,” he hears one of the nurses say tiredly, as the darkness takes him.

“Worth it,” replies another.

***

The third time Castiel wakes, Dean is there, sitting by his bedside and holding his hand. His head is down, and he might be sleeping, but Castiel’s own eyes are barely open to tell. He’s stopped from making his newly conscious state known when he hears voices drifting in from the hallway.

“...and he is _my_ son, I am still his next of kin, that is supposed to mean something!”

“Mrs. Novak-”

“ _Ms._ Novak.”

“Ms. Novak, I understand that you’re upset, but we cannot undermine your son’s wishes just because-”

“My son has no idea what’s best for him, that’s what got him into this mess.”

“-you disagree. Regardless ma’am, you were able to speak and make decisions for him while he was unconscious, and we did everything possible to accommodate your wishes regarding-”

“ _That man_ has no right to be in my son’s room!”

“-Mr. Winchester, however, Mr. Novak is able to resume making decisions for himself, and the law requires we honor his choices.”

“He hasn’t even been seen by a doctor yet, how can you possibly decide that he’s not still compromised?”

“Dr. Barnes has been kept apprised of Mr. Novak’s condition, and will be seeing him this afternoon, but she’s has been clear that she feels there is no reason to question his mental status at this time.”

“No reason- he ripped out his IVs! He went on a, a _suicide_ mission to find that man when he could barely walk.”

“Yes, Ms. Novak, we are all very well aware of the lengths your son has gone to show he wants to have Mr. Winchester around him. I think he’s made his wishes perfectly clear in that respect. Don’t you?”

“I don’t see how that’s relevant to this conversation, as I said-”

“It’s the _point_ of this conversation, Ms. Novak, which I’ll remind you, is only a courtesy. As far as this hospital is concerned, the matter is closed. Mr. Novak makes decisions for himself going forward, Mr. Winchester stays in the room unless Mr. Novak himself requests otherwise.  

“This is truly-”

“Ms. Novak, your son is still very ill and needs your support. It’s been my observation that your presence has caused him an immense amount of stress in the very short time that he’s been awake. I would ask you to please step back and consider your son’s health before continuing to push this issue. I do believe he made it very clear the lengths he’s willing to go to be with Dean. You need to decide if his mental and physical well-being is worth sacrificing to have your way.”

Castiel’s eyes are wide open now as he lays in bed and stares at the top of Dean’s head. He doesn’t hear his mother reply again, but he thinks he recognizes the sound of her heels clicking away angrily down the hall. He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding and then notices Dean’s shoulders are shaking. Castiel squeezes Dean’s hand gently, prompting him to raise his head and reveal the smile on his face. He’s _laughing._

“You’re laughing! You’re listening to my mother getting dressed down and you’re _laughing.”_ Castiel pokes the meat of his shoulder, making Dean twitch away with another giggle.

“I’m sorry sweetheart, but I’ve been dying for someone to do that for _days,”_ Dean groans, and then abruptly sobers, raising Castiel’s hand to kiss his knuckles. “You missed a lot while you were playing Sleeping Beauty.”

Castiel raises his eyebrows. “So I gathered. Care to fill in the blanks?”

“She’s a piece of work,” Dean replies darkly, but he doesn’t elaborate.

There’s silence for a moment and then, “I was worried,” Castiel finds himself blurting out. He runs a hand through his hair and then busies himself picking at the thin hospital blanket.  

Dean shifts his chair closer and drops his head into Castiel’s lap, so he’s looking right at him. “Hey,” he grins, and Castiel can’t help but smile back. “How come?”

Castiel sighs. “I thought- I wasn’t sure what exactly she said to you. If you believed that I didn’t want you here. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t worried that you’d change your mind after we were rescued. You know, a-about me.”

Dean straightens up, standing so that he can pivot and sit on the side of Castiel’s bed, grab his jaw and kiss him firmly on the mouth. He strokes Castiel’s hair as he pulls away and lets his left hand drop to take Castiel’s healthy one. He opens his mouth to speak but then hesitates, looking down and drumming his fingers on his leg before continuing. “Yea. Yea, you know, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think about it. Been blaming myself for all of this ever since I woke up. First night after Mrs. Lisbon out there-” Castiel snorts at the reference,”-showed up and kicked me out, I went and got nice and drunk at the bar ‘cross the street. Moped into my whiskey thinking about how I was no good for you until Sam found me and kicked my ass back down to earth. He’s good for that.” Dean pauses and looks up at Castiel from under his lashes. “There’s some stuff you don’t know, Cas. Your mom, she didn’t get here until maybe three days ago, and by the time she did I kinda... well, I’d pretty much set up camp in your room. Hospital made a real scene at first because technically I was still a patient the first time I made Sam roll me down here, but I was fine. Nothin’ a nap couldn’t fix. Anyway, I sorta pulled the same stunt you did,” he grins and Castiel grins back, “Less blood, more flirting with the nurses, though. They liked me.” He clears his throat, “So, your mom… she pegged me right from the start. Tried to bribe me into pissing off and when that didn’t work, did a quick one-eighty and went straight for the jugular.”

Dean pauses and gestures to Castiel’s water on the overbed table. “Cool if I..?”

Castiel nods, “What’s mine is yours.”

Dean flushes a little, though he hides it well behind the cup. Wiping his mouth and licking his lips, he continues, “So the thing is, I guess when you come into the emergency room unconscious and no one can really account for what happened to you, they do a pretty thorough exam.” Castiel’s brow furrows in confusion when Dean starts to shift uncomfortably. “Long story short, uh, there were notes in your medical record about ‘signs of recent sexual activity,’ if you catch my drift.”

“Dean, I think if you’re doing it, you should be able to say it.”

“Yea, fine, whatever - anal sex, you happy? Anyway, by the time your mom showed up, I’d told our story about sixty times to thirty different people, and no one seemed to have an issue. But your fucking mom…” The pause Dean takes here is different, darker. His eyes are narrowed now and fixed on the wall behind Castiel, his jaw twitching visibly as he attempts to compose himself. “She got ahold of your chart and saw that note. Bypassed me completely and went all the way up to the hospital board. She wanted me _arrested,_ Cas. She was saying stuff about how I must have lured you away from the plane, that I was probably intentionally avoiding rescue, that I…” Dean trails off and looks away, but Castiel can see him swallowing hard and blinking back tears. He reaches out and takes Dean’s hand, squeezing tightly.

“Dean,” he says sternly, more calm than he feels inside at hearing this ridiculous twist, “Please look at me.” Reluctantly, Dean does, and his next blink sends tracks of wetness spilling down his cheeks. “Nothing about what my mother put you through is okay. But I’m here now. I’ll make sure the record is set straight on all accounts, and I’ll have her banned from my room. I’ll speak to the police, everything will be fine.”

Dean shake his head. “No need, they never called the police. Hospital didn’t exactly side with me, I mean, they did toss me out of your room, but they said they expected you to wake up and that it was ‘prudent’ they hear your side of things first before throwing around accusations. Said it seemed strange that someone intent on hurting you would go to such great lengths to save your life.” Dean takes a deep, shaky breath. “Pretty sure I was supposed to be booted out of the hospital completely, but I kinda suspect some of the nurses took my side.”

“I will take care of my mother, then. You won’t ever have to see her again, I promise, Dean-”

Before Castiel can continue, Dean’s shaking his head and interrupting, “Cas, no. I’m not trying to drive a wedge between you and your family.”

“Someone who cares as little for my happiness as my mother apparently does is not a person I would call ‘family,’ Dean. Regardless, this was a long time coming. Perhaps this will be the wake-up call she needs to inspire some respect for me and my decisions. It’s not up for debate. Dean, _you_ make me happy. You are who I am afraid to lose. Please,” Castiel implores, “Please accept my apologies on behalf of my mother’s revolting behavior, and allow me to make it up to you.”

His words must resonate with Dean because the other man melts forward, his forehead coming to rest on Castiel’s shoulder. “Fuck, I missed you, Cas. Was so worried you weren’t going to wake up. Some of the nurses were really cool, though. Don’t think they thought much of your mom. They’d come out and bring me sandwiches, tell me how you were doin’. We should send them a fruit basket or something when you get out.”

“That explains their reaction this afternoon,” Castiel muses. “I think they were rooting for you. I can’t imagine my mother was much fun to have around the nurses’ station, and I know for a fact she’s not nearly as easy on the eyes.”  Dean snorts into Castiel’s skin. “But tell me,” Castiel continues, pushing him back gently. “It sounded like you were thinking of leaving. That you perhaps believed my mother’s nonsense?” 

Dean sighs. “I don’t know that I’d go _that_ far, but kind of. Maybe for a minute. Thought you might realize you could do better than me.” He holds up a hand to ward off Castiel’s reproachful stare. “I know, I know, whatever, don’t look at me like that. We’ve established this is like, one of my hot button issues. I’m working on it.”

“So… what made you change your mind?” Castiel’s curious, but his tone is gentle, and he’s got Dean’s fingers laced with his own.

He’s surprised though, when Dean looks up and flashes him a wide smile. “That part’s easy. There was this guy- real knockout, ass that won’t quit - he once told me that if I wanted to get rid of him, I’d have to tell him so myself. That he deserved to hear he wasn’t wanted from me. That I owed him that. I figured... “ He shrugs, “That guy wouldn’t send his mommy to do his dirty work. At the very least, I figured he owed me the same deal.”

Castiel leans forward and burrows his head in Dean’s neck, mirroring Dean’s position from moments before. “Thank you,” he breathes. “I’m so sorry for all of this.”

“Nothin’ to apologize for sweetheart. We don’t pick our families. And it’s not like you wanted to be unconscious.”

Castiel pulls back. “Speaking of which, my mother said something about yours being here? Is it only Sam? Where is he?”

Right on cue as if his ears were burning, Dean’s phone buzzes and he picks it up. “Hey Sammy! Oh yea? I’m on it, call you back.” Dean pockets his phone and the smile on his face widens. “Perfect timing for that question, sunshine.” He grabs the remote for the small TV mounted high on the ICU room’s wall and turns it on, flipping until he comes upon a local news station. He turns up the volume and shushes Castiel when he opens his mouth to speak. “Just watch,” he says, gesturing towards the TV and nudging Castiel over so he can sit next to him. Castiel goes willingly, because it means he can cuddle into Dean’s side and pillow his head on his chest, his bandaged arm resting softly on Dean’s stomach.

On the TV above their heads, a man is being escorted away from a private jet, off the tarmac of the Fairbanks International Airport in handcuffs. His face isn’t familiar to Castiel, but something about the man’s demeanor still makes his skin crawl. The man is maintaining an outward calm, but a close-up shot from the camera reveals eyes that are positively murderous. The hair on the back of Castiel’s neck stands up to see it, and he has no idea why. It’s only after a few moments of trying without luck to decipher what about this guy raises his hackles, that he even remembers to listen to the commentary.

_“...Former FAA official Dick Roman being taken into custody after a thwarted attempt to flee the country following the vigilante-driven exposure of an elaborate insurance scheme involving Alaskan Airlines Flight 918. Roman is accused of using his connections as a previous board member for Alaskan Airlines to orchestrate the intentional downing of Flight 918 that resulted in the deaths of thirty three people last week, including the entire crew. Multiple high ranking Alaskan Airlines executives and one FIA air traffic controller are also being taken into custody at this time on related charges. According to a slew of mysteriously-released documents and emails from Roman himself, the crash was a key piece in the alleged elaborate plan to cash in on insurance payouts while selling their own stock shares ahead of bankrupting the Airline and engaging in further insurance fraud.”_

If this had been a cartoon, Castiel’s jaw would have been on the floor, his eyes bugged straight out of his head. “ _Dean,”_ he hisses, but Dean waves him off with a shushing sound, his eyes still glued to the screen, so Castiel settles for squeezing his hand so tight Dean’s fingers turn white.

_“Federal officials received a tip this afternoon on Roman’s whereabouts following the document dump earlier today. A thus-far untraceable email sent the information to Federal investigators as well as various news outlets, outing the various members of Roman’s scheme as well as the details. Up until this point, the FAA’s official statement has been that the missing plane went down after a freak explosion from a camping stove in the cargo hold, and that the strange alteration in course was a result of pilot error, or possibly a solar flare that caused onboard equipment to malfunction. The solar flare theory was originally corroborated by NASA as well as the air traffic controller who has since been taken into custody alongside Roman. While the flare may have been real, it’s now being suggested by experts that the equipment on the plane may have been damaged intentionally before take-off. Had the incriminating documents not been leaked, it’s unlikely that this horrible plot to sacrifice human lives for a cash payout would have ever truly come to light. With multiple accomplices in various roles assisting Roman with his alleged scheme and cover-up, as well as Roman himself spearheading the search and rescue efforts and the investigation into the crash, it would have been nearly impossible for an outsider to put all the pieces together. Whoever was responsible for releasing those documents will undoubtedly be hailed as a hero, especially to the two survivors of the crash and the family members of those who were killed. We expect to hear a statement shortly from one of the survivor’s family members on potential legal recourse regarding Roman’s alleged intentional withholding of proper search and rescue efforts, which led to two survivors almost perishing inside the National Park where the plane crashed…”_

Dean grabs the remote and clicks the volume down almost to silent before turning to Castiel, his eyes wide. “Holy shit,” he says. “I mean, Sammy told me some of it but… holy shit.”

“ _Sam_ told you? How…”

“Apparently my baby brother’s got hacking skills that rival Anonymous. You think you know a guy.”

Castiel just blinks, his head swimming with all the new information. “So… this man, this _Dick,_ ” Dean bursts out laughing and then quickly apologizes, looking exactly not sorry at all as Castiel continues, “He arranged to have our plane explode and go down in order to collect the insurance money and potentially more. The plot was believed because he had accomplices working _in_ the airline and at the airport who used their positions to lie? For a payout, I’m assuming? And then he led an intentionally poor rescue effort in the hopes that there would be no survivors to dispute the version of events he intended to present as findings on the crash. Am I understanding this correctly?”

Dean nods and shakes his head. “That about sums it up. Here, let me get Sam on the phone, he can probably explain some stuff better than me. He’s been working on it with Bobby this entire week.” Dean pulls his phone out and puts it on speaker.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice sounds excited and proud, and Castiel feels a small rush of affection for Dean’s little brother and his efforts.

“I saw, Sammy, you did good kid. Hey, you’re on speaker, Cas is awake.”

“Hey, Castiel! Dean’s told me a lot about you, I’m sorry we’re meeting like this.”

“Not at all, Sam. I owe you a debt of gratitude for your investigational prowess.”

“Oh, it’s no big deal, lot of it was Bobby, actually. Hey, Dean, is it cool if we come up and say hi later?”

Dean glances at Castiel who nods with a smile. “That’d be great, Sam. You know where we are.”

Before Dean can hang up, Castiel interrupts, “Sam, may I ask you a question? I was wondering if you could explain the solar flare piece a bit more? The news sort of glossed over it.”

“Oh yea, of course,” Sam replies, and Castiel’s amused by how he seems to get even more enthusiastic as he discusses his research. “So get this, there actually was a solar flare. And it _did_ mess with the tower’s instruments, but only for a couple minutes. The tower was prepared, it should have been no big deal. Except Roman’s inside man was up there, and when the flare made the radar blip, he gave intentional instructions to the pilot to head west to avoid the worst of it. Turns out, according to NASA, that’s exactly the opposite of what he should have done. Made the plane disappear right off the radar, essentially. The pilot would have eventually turned and gone back to his planned route of course, but that’s when the timed explosions went off and the plane went down. But apparently once the flare cleared, the plane would have been off the radar anyway, so no reason for anyone to think it hadn’t gone it’s charted route. It’s unbelievable, really.”

“That’s… wow,” is all Castiel can think to say at the moment.

“Tell him about the equipment,” Dean suggests.

“Oh yea, shit. Roman had someone mess with the radios and the emergency locator transmitters before takeoff. One of the flight engineers. His name was in the stuff I found, pretty sure he was arrested right after Dick. Hey, guys I gotta run - I’m gonna talk to the press about the possibility of a lawsuit, I mean, unless you don’t want me to, Cas.”

“I trust you, Sam,” Castiel replies, and Dean’s responding grin is so wide it threatens to split his face. “We’ll see you shortly?”

“Definitely!”

“Bring burgers,” Dean demands, before abruptly hanging up. He tosses his phone onto the table and leans back against the head of the bed, holding his arm up for Castiel to return to his snuggled up position, which he does without complaint. They sit there in heavy silence for several minutes, and Castiel wonders if Dean’s head is spinning as much as his is.

It’s Dean who finally breaks the silence. “So,” he says. “You think this TV gets Skinemax?”

***

Being in the hospital is supposed to be a restful experience, or so Castiel has always assumed, not that he’s ever had occasion to find out. As it turns out though, the hospital is just about the least restful place Castiel has had the unfortunate experience of being trapped. The influx of visitors is staved off only while Castiel remains in the ICU, which fortunately/unfortunately, is only for another day and a half. And if he thought dealing with Naomi Novak was frustrating, these people had badges and legal reasons to be there. Which apparently meant they weren’t quite as easy to throw out. His mother at least, hadn’t bothered to show her face again after Castiel had let her have it for what she’d done to Dean. 

 _Good riddance,_ Castiel thought, on the rare occasion that she crossed his mind, and he means it. But despite his mother’s absence, he’s hardly alone. Dean hasn’t left his side, Sam and Bobby apparently giving up on asking him to, recognizing a lost cause when they see one. They take turns switching out his clothes, and bringing in decent meals from the outside, never forgetting to include Castiel as if he’d been one of them all along and not a perfect stranger less than a month ago. The one time that they’d been left alone together while Dean went to fetch a nurse, Bobby had grunted something about Dean seeming happier to be hanging out in a hospital than he’d ever seen him before, and Castiel understood it for the tacit approval it was.  

But then there’s the steady stream of not-so-pleasant visitors. It seems like from the moment he arrives in his room on the medical-surgical floor, if it’s not nurses and doctors in and out of Castiel’s room, it’s physical therapists, case workers, and even a psychiatrist. Then there’s the FAA, who (according to Bobby and Sam) are a “ _hell of a lot more polite this time around, would you believe it?”_ And the FBI, a US Attorney, a representative from Alaskan Airlines, and god only knows who else. It’s exhausting and irritating, at a time that should be mostly peace and relaxation. How is a man supposed to enjoy the pleasure of a private, indoor bathroom with all the toilet paper one could ask for when there’s yet another stranger waiting perpetually outside the door to pick his completely fried brain.

Still, the toilet thing is nice. As is the hot water, and the non-dehydrated food. Even hospital food doesn’t seem so bad, in comparison. Halfway through the second week of his hospital stay, Dean disappears for half an hour and returns with a PB&J on warm, homemade bread that he’d gotten from a bakery around the corner. Castiel had to work hard to stifle the moans that the comforting, fresh version of his favorite food pulled from him. Dean, meanwhile, had dropped his own sandwich in favor of watching Castiel with his mouth open and eyes wide. Fortunately, Castiel had realized the picture he was painting before he got _too_ enthusiastic in licking his fingers, but seeing Dean staring at him like _that_ had reignited the curl of heat deep in his belly that he’d almost forgotten about. Almost.

***

It would still be another four days before Castiel would be released. In that time, he and Dean had several serious discussions about what their future could look like, and to his surprise, Castiel found himself wanting to stay in Alaska. Ultimately, he wanted to stay with _Dean,_ and if Dean still wanted to leave then they’d figure it out. But Castiel has always been a logical, sensible sort of person, able to easily separate emotions from reality, and despite everything he’d gone through with the plane crash, Alaska had grown on him. He _liked_ the weather, the scenery, the remote and isolated feel. He felt good here, like he could finally breathe. Besides, he reasons, he can be an accountant anywhere. He can consult remotely, or set up a private business doing personal taxes, which would mean a better work-life balance and no one to tell him what to do. It might take some time to establish himself, but he’s got decades of savings to tide them over. 

Dean had seemed relieved, though whether it was over not having to leave the state or that Castiel wanted to stay with him, he wasn’t quite sure. Castiel supposed it didn’t matter in the end, but Dean did say that he didn’t think he was suited for many other places, and that he was more than happy to stay here and continue working at Singer Salvage, so long as Castiel was by his side. Castiel pushes him on that a little bit, suggesting that there must be other things he’s interested in doing. He suggests Dean sample some online engineering courses, and Dean doesn’t say no so Castiel counts that as a win and vows to circle back to it later. Maybe after sex.

After Castiel officially quits his job, Bobby offers his home to both of them, at least while Castiel recovers and they search for a place of their own. They gratefully accept, and Bobby even tells Castiel he can store the items he and Dean will be hauling back from his apartment in one of the mechanic’s bays that never gets used.

As Castiel’s discharge date draws near, the case worker’s visits are more frequent. She and the nurses repeatedly impress upon both of them how important Castiel’s routine wound care and physical therapy are to his recovery. A nurse will be visiting Bobby’s house once a week and a therapist twice, but in between it’ll just be him and Dean. Dean, to his credit, doesn’t even blink at the responsibility, just jumps in with two hands to learn what’s expected of him. Soon enough, Dean is doing the bandage changes better than the nurses, and he’s ridiculously proud of himself. He beams when they tell him what a natural he is, and how his sterile technique is flawless. The wound itself is still disgusting, and Castiel has a hard time looking at it, despite being reminded constantly by his surgeon of how lucky he is to have an arm at all. 

The first, emergency surgery he’d had while unconscious was to clean out the wound and scrape off all the dead tissue so that it could heal properly. Between that and being pumped full of IV antibiotics, the infection’s finally cleared, but the wound is still ugly, raw and red. He’s actually got a second healing wound on his leg now, having undergone a brief subsequent surgery some time in the second week to graft healthy skin onto the deep burn. Castiel thinks it looks even worse now with the meshed, holey graft only partly obscuring the exposed deep tissue, but it doesn’t really hurt. The graft donor site on his thigh still stings like a bitch, though. Dean dresses that one impeccably too, and doesn’t even get distracted by being that close to Castiel’s groin.

He’d worry that his body disgusts Dean, and that moving into this explicit caretaker role might damage their relationship, but Dean’s read his mind on that one and certainly done his best to put Castiel’s fear to rest. Most nights, after the nurse has come in to dole out meds and take a last set of vitals (at least until shift change at three AM), Dean asks him how he’s feeling, and if he’s tired or in any pain. And if he’s not, Dean dims the lights and climbs into Castiel’s lap to straddle his uninjured thigh. 

And then they kiss. Slow and passionate, hot and open and wet, hard and bruising, careful and lingering and chaste. They kiss for a long time, as long as they think they can get away with before the chance of being walked in on gets too high, or until Castiel’s nighttime meds begin to kick in and he gets sleepy. When he does, Dean will suck his bottom lip in one last time, kiss the side of his mouth and down his neck, and then slide off to go lay in his own bed. (Being the minor local celebrities that they apparently are has its perks, and Castiel’s yet to be saddled with a roommate, which means more privacy and a real bed for Dean). The nurses’ haven’t said anything about Dean pushing the wheeled beds close enough that the two of them can hold hands across the space between, and Castiel makes a mental note to send more than one fruit basket.

On discharge day, Castiel’s more than ready to get out of there, though. He’s wheeled out of the hospital, not because he requires it but because it’s policy, and arguing would only result in being stuck inside longer. Bobby’s dropped off a car for them to use, and Dean’s waiting aside of it with a big smile and the front passenger door held open. It’s almost strange though, for a moment he pictures Dean bringing him home to their tent, and Castiel is surprised to find a weird pang of nostalgia at that thought. He wonders what became of all their things. Surprisingly, Dean knows. 

Apparently everything had been retrieved from Coal Creek and the Roadhouse, and was waiting for them at Bobby’s. What’s more, Dean tells Castiel that while he’d been napping a few days prior, Dean had met with one of the FAA officials to look through photos of the wreckage. He’d pointed out the personal items he and Castiel had left behind in the plane, and the official had marked them off with the assurance that they’d be delivered straight to Bobby’s once they were processed and deemed unnecessary to keep as evidence. Castiel had to pause then, overcome suddenly with emotion that Dean would even remember his attachment to those books he’d left behind, never mind go out of his way to get them back, especially with everything they had going on in preparation for Castiel’s discharge. His eyes well up, and he spends several long minutes with his face buried in Dean’s chest. Dean just closes his arms around his back and holds him, paying no mind to the line of cars beeping at them, or the confused orderly who isn’t sure whether he can leave with the vacated wheelchair.

Once Castiel’s able to pull himself together, Dean tucks him inside the car, and they’re off. And again, it’s strange, but at the same time not strange at all. They’re in an actual car, in the middle of civilization. They _made_ it, they survived. Both of them. Together. There’s no sense of urgency, no pressing need to be anywhere at all. When Castiel looks across the front seat at Dean, he finds him already looking back with a happy smile and shining eyes. 

“Where to, sunshine?”

Castiel just smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a link to Wild's rebloggable tumblr post: [WILD on Tumblr!](https://castielslostwings.tumblr.com/post/182019590136/castielslostwings-wild-by-castielslostwings)
> 
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	10. TIMESTAMP #1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean realizes he and Cas need some alone time after leaving the hospital. Cas has something to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hai! This is not the epilogue, sorry to disappoint, but that should be along within the week. But for those of you waiting patiently, this timestamp didn’t fit into how I wanted the epilogue to flow, but I decided to share it anyway. Because you guys are the best readers. So here, have a short bonus scene. We pick up immediately after Dean & Cas leave the hospital!
> 
> Also, explicit bottom!Dean, cuz I totally did claim they’d switch, so um, here I am to deliver, lol.

A part of Castiel secretly worried about the way he and Dean would adjust during their return to civilization, especially in regards to each other. Because no matter how much they both wanted it, and regardless of how they cared for each other, these were  _ big  _ life changes they were facing. Castiel was quitting his job and moving the better part of the way across the country, Dean was throwing his big plans to finally get out of Alaska to the wind, and neither of them had ever shared living space with another person besides family in their entire lives. Even in college Castiel’s headcase roommate had dropped out halfway through their first semester, and that short experience of sharing his limited space had left such a bad taste in his mouth that he’d requested singles from there on out. Plus there was the whole thing where the house they were going home to wasn’t even theirs but  _ Bobby’s,  _ and while Bobby might be as good as a father to Dean, he was still essentially a stranger to Castiel. Castiel’s life was about to change, and though he was walking in fully informed and of his own free will, the idea of voluntarily stranding himself thousands of miles from everything he’s ever known is still a bit daunting. 

But as it turns out, he and Dean had built more of a foundation in the wild than Castiel had been inclined to give them credit for. They’d emerged from their ordeal not just emotionally bonded, but with an unspoken language and a reciprocal sense of what the other needed at any given time. And while surely things wouldn’t always be  _ easy, _  they were both committed to working hard and sorting through whatever was thrown at them, to patiently figuring things out as they came, or “winging it,” as Dean would say. 

But that bond, that intuitive recognition that Dean apparently has where Castiel’s needs are concerned pays off immediately, no waiting, as they drive away from the hospital. Because when Castiel shrugs and says he doesn’t mind where they go, Dean’s smile widens and he puts the car into drive.

“No tents,” Castiel warns good-naturedly. “Much as I’ve become nostalgic for our time together in one, I don’t think my body can take sleeping on the ground again just yet.” 

“No tents,” Dean affirms with a laugh. “Promise.” 

“Cheeseburgers and pie? Bubble tea?” Castiel asks hopefully. “We haven’t gotten to do the greasy-spoon thing we talked about. I know that you were looking forward to it.” 

Dean nods, and his mouth quirks like he knows something Castiel doesn’t. “That can definitely be added to the menu for later,” he replies evasively. 

Castiel drops his head back against the passenger seat and stares the side of Dean’s face down. “If I didn’t know better, Dean Winchester, I’d suspect you didn’t want my input on where we’re going at all,” he says. Dean just flashes him those pearly whites that he damn well knows Castiel is weak for, and then drags his gaze away and back to the road. Castiel doesn’t push- not even when Dean fails to take the exit onto the highway that will take them south towards Bobby’s home and instead heads into the city proper. Seemingly made anxious by Castiel’s refusal to bite, Dean keeps stealing glances over at him every few minutes like he’s wondering if Castiel’s sorted out his secret plan.  _ No worries there,  _ Castiel thinks, finding it difficult to imagine what Dean could be up to that would have him so worked up and secretive. 

By the time Dean pulls into the parking lot of what looks to be the nicest hotel in Fairbanks, he’s not looking so cocky anymore. He’s licking his lips and fidgeting in his seat as he throws Bobby’s car into park and kills the motor. “I guess maybe this was a dumb idea,” he starts, hesitantly. “I just thought, you know, the nurse isn’t coming out until the day after tomorrow… I figured maybe you’d like a night or two alone after having everyone breathing down your neck in the hospital. Just you and me, or- I could go, even, if you wanted some time alone. I’d get that,” he finishes quickly, flipping the keyring over his fingers. “But now I’m thinkin’ this was stupid. I shoulda asked you first, but-” 

Dean’s cut off by Castiel’s good hand slapping across his mouth. It’s awkward given the angle, but it gets the job done. “Sorry about the hand,” Castiel apologizes, and Dean raises his eyebrows. “I would have preferred to kiss you quiet, but I’m afraid I’m not quite that mobile just yet.” He raises his bandaged arm apologetically, and Dean darts his tongue out to lick at Castiel’s palm, the familiar spark of amusement returning to his eyes just like that. Castiel chuckles and pulls his hand away, leaning towards Dean to meet him halfway across the front seat. Their lips touch and release sweetly, and Castiel strokes Dean’s jaw. “This was extremely thoughtful,” he says sincerely, staring into Dean’s eyes and seeing his soul bared over this simple gesture.  _ He’s still worried about being rejected. _ “It’s perfect. It’s just what we need. You’re wonderful.”

And he’s not exaggerating, not by any means. He and Dean haven’t been  _ really  _ alone for weeks now, and while Castiel’s extremely grateful to have Bobby’s place to recuperate at, they won’t be truly alone there either. They do need this- they  _ deserve  _ it, in fact. And so Castiel threads his fingers in between Dean’s, and squeezes his hand. “Let’s go,” he says. “Grab our bags now, just in case we don’t make it back to the car tonight. Maybe we’ll end up going for cheeseburgers later, or perhaps we’ll need to order in. I think, and that’s if it’s at all up to me, that I may want to leave you tied to the bed for the duration of our stay.” Dean’s eyes go wide at that, and Castiel doesn’t think he’s ever seen him move so fast. 

***

“I don’t  _ need  _ two hands for this, Dean,” Castiel scoffs, crooking a finger inside of Dean and making him arch and moan. “See?” 

Dean pants and does his best to look indifferent, a difficult task when one is splayed out nude with their arms tied to opposite sides of a bed. “No one likes a showoff, Cas,” he mutters, but his voice is breathy and punched out. 

“Louder,” Castiel demands, adding another finger and returning as best he can to stroke at the sensitive spot he’s located inside Dean. “I want to hear you, I want to hear all the noises you make for me, don’t you dare hold back.” 

“Oh fuck, Cas, when did you get so bossy?” Dean’s pulling unthinkingly at his soft restraints, wriggling on top of the soft mattress in an unconscious physical request for  _ more, more, more _ . His eyes are hooded and his lip is pulled between his teeth and Castiel can’t help but want more himself. 

“Since I couldn’t have you like this,” he murmurs in delayed response, dropping his head to take Dean into his mouth and really start to pull out all the stops. Up until this point, Castiel’s been the one to get lost and let himself be dragged under by the thrall of their intimacy, but that award is definitely going to Dean today, and Castiel finds the role reversal equally captivating. He watches through his eyelashes as Dean’s body relaxes, submitting completely to his attentions, succumbing slowly to sensation and feeling and emotion, uncaring of what he looks like as he writhes underneath Castiel. Seeing Dean so loose and free, the opposite of the way he carries himself in his daily life, only makes Castiel want to push him farther. In this moment, Dean is  _ his, _ and he is God- here to strip away every blemish, every mark, every smear left behind from any and everything that’s ever tried to hurt Dean; the things that wormed their way inside and claimed a piece of his soul, that made him believe he was anything less than perfectly, wonderfully made. Castiel wants take all of that away, to remake Dean in the image of how he sees him, and truly, if he himself had built Dean from bone and ash, he couldn’t have done a better job than the work of art in front of him  _ except  _ to erase all of that self-doubt weighing him down and leading him to believe that he’s anything but. But he’s here now, here to replace  _ all of that  _ with something better, something  _ good,  _ something  _ worthy _ . 

And just like that, Castiel realizes they’ve missed a step somewhere along the way. He pulls off of Dean’s cock with a gasp, suddenly anxious, removing his fingers and wiping them on the towel that’s mean for  _ after _ . “Fuck,” he breathes, his chest starting to heave as he leans forward to untie Dean as quickly as he can from the bed with only one working hand. “Dean,” he growls almost angrily - at himself, not Dean- not that he bothers to clarify that as he frees Dean’s hands one after the other. 

“Cas? Cas, what’s wrong?” Dean looks almost panicked at his sudden change in demeanor, his eyes wide despite the lingering haze in them as he shakes off the tie around his wrist. His hand settles on Castiel’s shoulder. “Cas, talk to me.” But Castiel just growls again, sliding his good hand behind Dean’s back to splay between his shoulder blades and use as leverage in pulling the other man up and into his lap. “Whoa,” Dean says, settling his naked body against Castiel’s as their eyes lock together in an apparent battle of wills, but that’s not what this is.

“Dean,” Castiel says lowly, framing Dean’s face with both of his hands, the loose end of the bandages circling his right wrist dancing over Dean’s chin.

“Dean.” 

“Cas…” Dean replies slowly, obviously lost, and Castiel swallows hard.

He hesitates briefly before ultimately gathering his courage and blurting out, “I love you,” before he can lose his nerve. Dean inhales sharply. “I love you,” he repeats, “and… I thought that you should know.” 

Dean tips his head back, the soft light from the bedside lamp revealing the lightest imprint of Castiel’s teeth just underneath his right ear. He blows out his held breath in a rush, dropping his chin and returning his gaze to Castiel’s face with a relieved, yet mischievous smirk on his own. “Jesus Christ, Cas,” he sighs, circling his arms around Castiel’s shoulders and pulling their bodies flush together. He drops his forehead to Castiel’s shoulder and stays there. Castiel, for his part, remains perfectly still, as if any slight movement might provoke an upsetting reaction from Dean. But Dean eventually just kisses his shoulder and sits back up, cupping Castiel’s face in his hand and kissing him soft and slow. 

Castiel  _ almost  _ loses himself to it, but he manages to pull back slightly before things can escalate again. “Dean, wait, Dean - I just told you that I love you,” he says, knowing his face is doing that squinting thing Dean claims he does when he’s thinking too hard. 

Dean’s eyes twinkle and his smile is soft. He strokes Castiel’s flank with the tips of his fingers and says, “I heard you.” And then he’s covering Castiel’s mouth with his own again, kissing him breathless and breathing into it, “I love you too, sunshine.” But what he doesn’t do is give Castiel a chance to respond. As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Dean’s rocking up in Castiel’s lap just to grind back down on him. Castiel doesn’t stop him this time, doesn’t try to turn their moment into some big  _ thing.  _ He gets it. Dean doesn’t get off on spilling his feelings the way other people expect him to, and Castiel is fine with that. When he’d stopped him earlier, he’d only been looking for an acknowledgment that Dean was  _ okay  _ with Castiel’s own admission. He’s actually somewhat surprised that Dean replied with words at all. But this - this makes sense. Dean is a man of action, and right now, he couldn’t be speaking more clearly. He doesn’t mess around once he gets going, either. The moment Castiel is hard again, Dean’s lining himself up and sinking down onto his cock. His arms are wrapped tightly around Castiel’s shoulders and his lips, his teeth are marking up Castiel’s neck, biting his ear, they’re in his hair and on his mouth. 

The green-eyed beauty in his arms swivels and rolls his hips, grinding in circles against Castiel’s pelvis instead of simply sliding up and down. His movements make everything feel drawn out and all the more intense, leaving Castiel no choice but to hang on and enjoy the ride. Dean looks down from where he’s perched just above Castiel into his eyes, framing the side of his face with the flat of his big, warm hand. His other arm stays braced around Castiel’s shoulders, keeping them close as he rocks. Castiel can’t say anything, can hardly breathe at how beautiful Dean is like this, how close he feels to him. Dean’s skin quickly becomes hot and damp where it slides against his own, and Castiel can’t help but try and hold on tighter and tighter. By the time Dean comes between them with a low moan that borders on a whine, his thighs must be burning and his skin is hot and slippery. But he lets Castiel push him to his back, wraps his fingers around the back of Castiel’s head and kisses him hard and deep as he spreads his legs and encourages Castiel to fuck him hard. When Castiel comes inside him, it’s with Dean’s tongue down his throat, some kind of wordless analogy there that’s beyond his ability to parse out at the moment. When he’s mostly done shaking and just on the edge of oversensitive, he pulls out and collapses aside of Dean, both of them breathing hard and still with hot, fiery skin. Their hands touch between their bodies, Dean threading their fingers together and squeezing comfortingly. Castiel’s bandages are gross and will need to be changed, but he can’t put together the energy for that right at this particular moment. 

He thinks absently about how nice it is to be  _ safe.  _ How luxurious it is to fuck Dean in a real bed, on a soft mattress, in a warm room inside of a hotel where there is real food, toilets that flush and no danger of hypothermia.  _ How absolutely decadent,  _ he thinks, and then laughs out loud at the ridiculousness of that thought. 

“Better not be laughing at me,” Dean murmurs, his eyes still closed. 

“Never,” Castiel replies, but he’s still chuckling a little. He looks over at Dean to find him staring. “What?” 

Dean opens his mouth and then closes it again with a small shake of his head. “Nothing. It’s- it’s nothing.”

Castiel yawns and forces himself up and off the bed. “I’m going to run a bath. Join me?” He holds out a hand but Dean raises his index finger.

“Gimme a minute, sugar. Go ahead, I’ll be right there. Wanna shoot Sammy a text and let him know we definitely aren’t coming down tonight.” Castiel nods and heads for the bathroom, but he’s stopped by Dean’s voice. 

“Hey,” he says softly, and Castiel turns around, one hand resting on the door jamb. He raises an eyebrow and waits. Dean’s sitting up now, fiddling with his phone and attempting to look anywhere but at Castiel. “I just wanted to say… that I really do. Love you, I mean.” Dean looks up guiltily from his fidgeting.

Castiel flashes him his widest, most genuine, gummy smile. “Yea,” he replies, throwing Dean a cheeky wink. “I kinda got that memo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully i’ll see y’all back for the epilogue in about a week!
> 
> Meanwhile:  
> Here's a link to Wild's rebloggable tumblr post: [WILD on Tumblr!](https://castielslostwings.tumblr.com/post/182019590136/castielslostwings-wild-by-castielslostwings)
> 
> Find me elsewhere:  
> [My Twitter](https://twitter.com/caslostwings)  
> [My Tumblr](https://castielslostwings.tumblr.com/)


	11. EPILOGUE: Three Years Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three years after their dramatic adventure and rescue from the Alaskan wilderness, Castiel and Dean are going back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to throw out another note of thanks for all the love and support this story has gotten, but especially to @thetwistedwillow, @naruhearts, and @coinofstone who listen to me bitch and complain endlessly and have never failed to prop me up when I'm feeling down. 
> 
> Endings are hard.
> 
> Jackie @winchester_reload (tumblr)/@saltywords (AO3)'s beautiful, incredible piece of Dean and Cas under the Northern Lights is at the end. :) I have no words for how overwhelmed I am to have such a spectacular piece of art to accompany this story. It's like it was pulled directly from my mind. Go visit Jackie's tumblr and rave at her about how awesome she is!!!

Castiel never thought he’d be back here,  _ again.  _ It’s all so familiar, and yet somehow, completely different. The vast openness of the valley with the dark, velvety night sky stretching endlessly overhead, the towering coldness of the mountains surrounding them, the quiet hush a new snowfall brings, and the absolute stillness that comes with being the only humans around for miles. 

It’s terrifying.

It triggers Castiel’s crash related post-traumatic stress in a way that he wouldn’t have thought was possible anymore, not after all those months of therapy and countless late-night reassurances wrapped in Dean’s strong, loving arms. But being here, being  _ back  _ here, with no immediate means of escape to civilization, with the only available shelter their familiar and trusty tent, Castiel feels… vulnerable. The flicker of the bonfire Dean’s built reflecting off of the snow should be reassuring, but instead, it just scares him. Unbidden, it brings back vivid memories of frantically heating water, of blood and pain and _Dean_ , shivering and pale,  of his own body falling helplessly through ice and of being so sure he was safe until  _ he wasn’t, he wasn’t, he was dying and everything was dark and he almost didn’t fucking make it out and, and -- _

“Whoa, whoa, hey, sunshine, where did you go on me? What’s wrong?” Dean’s face swims into view, appearing in front of him when Castiel was pretty sure he was just pressed up against his side. Dean’s hands are cool where he’s pulled them out of his gloves and rested them against the sides of Castiel’s face. The fingers of his left hand drift, brushing over Castiel’s lips lightly before disappearing to wipe at Dean’s own mouth. The simple silver band on his ring finger glints in the firelight as he does, and Castiel blinks at the sight, suddenly and unexpectedly sliding back into his own body, sanity intact. 

_ I’m not there, I’m here. I’m safe, Dean is safe. We’re together, and we’re not in any danger. This is not then. _

He's abruptly aware that his breathing is fast and heavy and that he's essentially hyperventilating himself into a dizzy panic without even realizing it. Using Dean’s calm, steady breaths and the rise and fall of his chest as a guide, Castiel works his way back down until he feels more like himself. His hands stop tingling -  _ when did that start?-  _ and his mind clears, bringing clarity and realness to his own attempted internal reassurances.

“I’m sorry Dean,” he gasps. “I don’t know what --”

“Shh,” Dean whispers, cutting him off as he drops from a crouched position onto his knees in between Castiel’s legs. Dean pulls him in tight to his chest, tucking Cas' head under his chin and threading his fingers into the hair at the back of Castiel's head the way he knows he likes. Castiel instantly feels grounded, secure,  _ understood _ . 

And also, perhaps, a little silly. As he settles, he starts to feel more and more embarrassed. _Ridiculous,_ he chastises himself. _You are better than this._

“Stop it.” Dean does his best to warn him off this train of thought, reading his mind like he always does, but Castiel just burrows down into his shoulder. “Cas,” he adds, his voice softer, “We knew this might happen. It’s no big deal, alright?”

“S’a big deal to me,” Castiel mutters into his jacket. “I’m ruining this.”

“Make it up to me in bed,” Dean suggests, the smile on his face reading clearly in his teasing tone, and Castiel can’t help but smile in return, even as his heart still races in his chest.

It still floors him even now how well Dean  _ knows  _ him, how easy it is for Dean to sense what Castiel is thinking, what he needs, and how he never fails to effortlessly follow through in giving it to him without a second thought. But the fact remains, that’s exactly what Dean does. He’s impossible to doubt. To know Dean is to trust him, and Castiel knows Dean just as well as Dean knows him.

That little bit of humor from his new husband is enough to break the remaining grasp of whatever has a hold over Castiel. He can do this. He  _ wants  _ to do this. For Dean, but also for himself. “Sit with me awhile first,” he says quietly in Dean’s ear as he pulls back. “I want to watch the Aurora.”

_ *** _

_Earlier_

The day Castiel Novak becomes Castiel Winchester, it snows. For some reason, that frustrates the hell out of his soon-to-be husband. Dean goes from slightly-hungover-but-calm-and-excited-groom to a raging ball of obnoxious anxiety. He’s pacing around their shared bridal suite as Sam, Castiel, and Balthazar lounge in wingback chairs, dressed in tuxes and with tumblers of whiskey in hand. Dean’s drinking directly from the bottle, and his bowtie is undone.

“I don’t understand what all the fuss is about,” Balthazar announces, and Castiel closes his eyes, bracing for yet another spat between his fiance and his best friend. Balthazar hates Dean, though after accidentally overhearing a drunken, post-bachelor party Castiel moan his way to a “surprisingly enthusiastic” climax via a shared wall, he seems to have developed a level of respect that includes an increasing willingness to tolerate him when necessary. Unfortunately, that doesn’t mean he’s above pushing Dean’s buttons, should the opportunity present itself. “You’re being a touch dramatic, don’t you think, Bridezilla? So you miss your flight because of the snow. Who cares? Will you really even notice  _ which  _ hotel room you and your lovely husband are fucking yourselves into oblivion in tonight?”

Dean stops pacing long enough to point his finger at Bal while Castiel looks on warily. “You shut the hell up,” he demands, before returning to wearing a hole in the carpet. “I have reasons. _Good_ reasons.”

Balthazar just shrugs. “If you insist.”

“I  _ do, _ ” Dean growls, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Castiel drains his tumbler and turns to the younger Winchester seated beside him. Sam looks quite dashing in his own green waistcoated tux, though he doesn't hold a candle to Dean. “How long do we have, Sam?”

Dean’s best man checks his watch, and his eyes flit over to a still pacing Dean before he replies. “Fifteen minutes, at least.”

“Alright,” Castiel replies with a decisive nod. “Take this.” He hands over his glass to Sam and then makes his way across the room to Dean, grabbing his fiancé's hand and pulling him into the en-suite bathroom. “Sam, you may want to leave or cover your ears. Balthazar...” Balthazar grins, and Castiel shrugs. Sam makes gagging sounds.

“What the fuck,” Dean mumbles.

“Should I tell the guests that we’re going to be delayed?” Sam’s question is delivered with not a little disgust, and around another mouthful of whiskey.

“No need, but thank you. I’m very efficient.” Castiel replies smoothly, closing the door behind them.

“Thank god,” Balthazar can be heard saying through the door, as the whiskey bottle clinks on the rim of Sam’s glass. "To the newlyweds!"   
  
***

It’s not until later that afternoon when the festivities are almost over that Castiel discovers why, exactly, Dean had been so nervous.

As they exit their own reception with the party still in full swing, the snow has long since stopped. Between that and the killer blowjob Castiel dished out, Dean’s back to being blissfully relaxed.

“Wish we could have ridden in Baby today,” he says wistfully as they stroll hand-in-hand through the venue's parking lot. Castiel gives Dean's fingers a squeeze and nods agreeably.  
  
“That would have been nice,” he replies, sidling up and resting his head on Dean’s shoulder as they walk. “But soon enough. You’ve really done an impressive job restoring her. I’m so proud of you.” Dean radiates happiness, glowing under the praise for his work on Baby in a way that he doesn’t allow when it comes to any other aspect of his life. That car is certainly something special, and Castiel is proud to have been the one to bring it into Dean's life. He had first noticed it on his way home from work one night. It had been parked forlornly in the corner of the used car lot that sits across from his little storefront office, obviously uncared for and seemingly without any interested parties. It had taken Castiel three days to even go look at it, the disaster it appeared to be, but as he made his way through the paperwork cluttering up his desk he found that he couldn’t keep his eyes from traveling back to the sad heap of metal across the way over and over again.

If possible, the car was actually worse up close. It honestly looked like someone had taken a tire iron to it in a fit of rage. The only thing this car shared with the dream one from Dean’s imagination was a technical make and model of the same year. _A black 1967 Chevy Impala, Cas, that's what I'm gonna drive someday._ But Castiel knew that if anyone could restore this mess to a semblance of its former glory, that person would be Dean. Not to mention, classic cars of the kind Dean longed for didn’t often show up for sale in rural Alaska. So with all that in mind, Castiel had bought the thing and Bobby had hauled it back to the auto yard so that he could surprise Dean.

Dean swears up and down that it wasn’t related, but he  _ did  _ propose a week later, so Castiel figures he was actually as happy as he appeared to be when he laid eyes on the car.

He’d hoped to have _"Baby,"_ as Dean had almost immediately christened "her", done for their wedding, but something about the engine just wasn’t working right, and the last thing either of them wanted was to be stranded in the middle of nowhere on their wedding night, no matter how well that might have gone over (in the end) the first time.

So Baby had stayed behind, locked up tight inside Bobby's garage. Instead, Dean leads Castiel to his own car, the one they’d driven out from Illinois together years ago, and opens the passenger side door for him. He smiles widely when Castiel rolls his eyes at the cheesy display of chivalry and leans inside to steal a kiss before jogging around and sliding in behind the wheel. But he doesn't start the car immediately, instead pausing to pull a silk bandana out from inside his pants' pocket.

“May I?” He gestures towards Castiel’s eyes, clearly wanting to blindfold him.

Castiel looks at him skeptically. They’re supposed to be headed to Fairbanks International, and he can’t imagine why Dean would need to blindfold him for that. “Is this a surprise or a sex thing, Dean? You know that I appreciate your spontaneity but my mother is  _ right  _ inside, and while I certainly enjoy parading you around in front of her, I draw the line at risking her seeing us having relations.”

Dean snorts. “Relations, Cas? Really?” He leans forward and ties the cloth around Castiel’s head anyway. “I  _ do  _ owe you a blowjob, but we’re kind of on a timetable, so you’ll have to take a rain check.” The car’s engine turns over as Dean’s hand grazes Castiel’s thigh, his touch eliciting a shiver that Castiel blames on the enhanced sensations that come along with the blindfold. “Not like, a long rain check though. Just ‘til we get where we’re going.”

Despite Dean's protests of a "timetable" and Castiel's concerns about peeping guests, they waste another ten minutes in the parking lot, kissing like teenagers and groping at each other's bodies, Castiel blindfolded all the while. He can't see Dean pull back when he finally does, but the image is just as clear in his mind. His sweet smile, the smattering of freckles across his cheekbones lit up with an adorable pink flush, his green eyes sparkling and lust-hazy.

"I love you," he says plainly, and Dean squeezes his hand.

"Right back atcha, sunshine."

***

The first real sign of Castiel’s lingering anxiety had reared its ugly head as he and Dean stood together and watched Ash take off from the Coal Creek Airstrip, leaving them behind and alone. It wasn’t much, just a brief shooting pang of capsulized fear that zipped down his torso and made his toes tingle, the kind that you might experience while looking out the window of a very tall building, or leaning over the side of a bridge. It was easy - _maybe_ _ too easy-  _ to pretend like he hadn’t felt a thing.

It wasn’t like Dean hadn’t given him an out, either. In fact, the first words out of his mouth after pulling the blindfold off to reveal Ash’s hangar (and Ash himself standing by one of his fueled-and-ready planes) were, “It’s completely fine if you hate this idea.”

But Castiel  _ hadn’t  _ hated it, quite the opposite, actually. The idea of ditching their classic, expected beach honeymoon to return to the place where they’d forged their relationship in ice and blood was exhilarating,  _ perfect, _ so much so that he was a touch disappointed in himself for not thinking of it first _.  _ Regardless, he had been all for it from the jump, gleefully throwing his arms around Dean’s neck and thanking him for the surprise. Dean had been the one to pull him back gently, to remind him of how he still sometimes struggled with processing and accepting what had happened to them, even waking up shaking and sweating and crying out for Dean to save him. “If we’re going to do this, I want you to be sure you’re ready,” he’d said carefully. “Yea, it would be amazing, and I definitely,  _ definitely _ want to go with you, but not if it’s gonna cause you pain or set you back. You matter most.”

Castiel had paused for a moment before responding, thinking sincerely about Dean’s words before nodding slowly. “I think that it’s the only thing left for me to do, Dean. You know that I’ve talked before about going back someday, why not now? How else can I really move forward? I think… I think that it’s alright if I have some difficult moments. I trust you. I’ll be honest. I want to do this. With you.”

And Dean had smiled, grabbing his hand tightly and rambling on about all the safeguards he’d put in place to ensure their romantic honeymoon didn’t turn into another scene out of  _ Hatchet  _ as they boarded Ash's plane.

Dean  _ had  _ done a crazy amount of preparation for this surprise in order to avoid exactly that, as Castiel soon found out. He and Bobby had brought down a four-wheel ATV the previous weekend when Dean was supposed to be having a “boys trip” bachelor party, carting it down via a boat to Slaven’s and then storing it out under a tarp at Coal Creek, just in case. In case of what, Dean didn’t seem keen on elaborating too much, mumbling something vague about Castiel’s six-foot, wall-of-muscle frame being less of a turn on when he’s unconscious. He’d also purchased a brand new satellite phone  _ and  _ brought one of Bobby’s old, reliable ones, probably the very same one Sam had called for their rescue on. Bobby was also expecting regular check-ins via Dean’s GPS, a nonintrusive way to ensure the two of them were still alive and well.

Castiel was touched at the lengths Dean had gone to in order to make him feel safe and vowed not to let his residual hang-ups ruin this for them.

***

Ultimately, they’d decided to forgo the cabin at least for the first night, setting up camp instead on the hilltop where the outhouse sits, smack in the middle of the same clearing where Castiel had first watched the Northern Lights all those years ago. Despite the circumstances, he remembers it clearly as being one of the most spectacular things he’d ever seen, second only to his Dean.

And wouldn’t you know, that view hasn’t changed at all. The Aurora is just as beautiful as Castiel remembers, probably more so without the distraction of injury and the fear that came alongside the uncertainty of rescue. The longer he sits and watches, safe in the crook of Dean’s arm, the better he feels. The panic, the razor-sharp flickers of memories popping up unbidden all start to fade, to dissipate like their breath into the cold night air. Castiel finally begins to relax, sipping from the bottle of expensive whiskey that was Bobby’s  _ other  _ wedding gift and just enjoying the nostalgia of reliving the good pieces of their first few days together.

“Are we going to recreate this  _ entire  _ night?” Castiel’s voice is low and quiet as he murmurs in Dean’s ear, prompting his husband to dip his head and lean into him, the light stubble on his cheek brushing inadvertently against Castiel’s lips. He licks them, and Dean’s eyes catch the motion, pupils widening minutely in response. Dean’s never been one to deny himself something he wants, especially if that something is Castiel being offered up on a silver platter- so unsurprisingly, he leans in to press their lips together properly before answering.

Dean's mouth is darker and shiny when he pulls away, and he looks so goddamn pleased with himself Castiel can’t help but smile. “I was sure hoping to avoid the part where you pass out and don’t wake up for a couple days, but if you’re going for authentic…” Castiel smacks him on the arm and drags him to his feet.

“You’re an ass.”

“You married me,” Dean shoots back with a grin.

Castiel’s smile widens at that. “I did,” he replies, tugging Dean towards the tent. “Come show me why that wasn’t a mistake.”

As they move inside the tent, Castiel can’t help but reflect on how far they’ve come and yet how strangely, so many things have stayed the same. He and Dean- they’d loved each other right from the start, Castiel can see that now. Dean changed him for the better, and he likes to think he returned the favor. In fact, as Castiel pulls Dean down on top of him and the light from the camping lantern glints off of his ring yet again, he  _ knows  _ he has. Dean makes him brave, makes him daring, makes him feel completely out of sorts and fully in control at the same time. Dean helped him to accept that it was okay to  _ want  _ things- adventure, a life he was really living, and Dean himself. Without Dean, Castiel might never have bothered to take charge of his own path, to be the man he’d always dreamed of being when no one was looking.

He’s suddenly grateful they’re spending their first night as husbands  _ here, _ where it all started. It feels right, it feels like more than full circle. Castiel can almost feel the anxiety and fear he’s tucked away deep in his mind and down in his gut loosening and flying away. They belong here, and they belong to each other. Just like this place, their love is perfect, perfect,  _ perfectly… wild. _

The end. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  [Rebloggable Tumblr Link including Art!](https://castielslostwings.tumblr.com/post/182835412051/winchester-reload-a-commission-for-the-talented)  
> 


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